It was the tight, black tee, I think
That pulled me to her.
That deep black, breast-filled baby-doll tee.
Pink and white heart-shape,
Framing the hand-holding, perma-smiled, proudly naked girl and boy
Proclaiming to the world
With no conviction or comprehension whatsoever
Of the depth and meaning of their pronouncement…
It was the soft, sweet sneer on her lovely face
That made her t-shirt so poignant
That gave the trite, genital-lacking marketing ploy
More balls than had ever been dreamt of
In some mid-70s publishing exec’s
Cancer-filled, bourbon-soaked office.
The irony of her beautiful, sarcastic breasts,
Aroused and enraged nipples
Pressing forth a message of sublime banality
Made me love her –
No, not love.
Made me lust for her in ways
I wouldn’t admit to my fearful loins
For two long decades to come.
But still I ached for her tight, round buttocks,
Riding atop her wide-legged jeans,
Newly washed and pressed by her doting Italian mother.
Closing my eyes to the public service announcements
Adorning the #9 bus,
It was not the anonymous shoulders and torsos of commuters I felt,
But her muscular arms
Soft-ball strengthened, summer-tanned,
Soft down covered.
Her lips, down-turned and wonderful,
Soft, resentful, desireable.
It was those lips I wanted to taste,
To match my bitterness with hers.
To struggle against her, all hot and rage-filled, sensuous night.
To pit my anger with hers – kiss for tooth mashing, tongue biting kiss.
To fight until she pinned me down,
Covered my thrashing body with her hate-filled one.
To hold and rub and writhe against her,
Till my hurt and hate and bile exploded
In a molten, shaking, brilliant eruption of putrid ecstasy,
Releasing us from our angry bonds
In the hopes of finding
In some less twisted and deeper way
That love might just be…forever.