Hooves Quicker Than

(money shot)

exposure, at only 8 pm:
 
the camera man with his fingers cold,
the friend of yellow brick roads
with issues on temptation woes
(streets dark and warm: i know you.)

shall we say the sway
of my shashay is addictive,
a crack cocaine,
a christmas treat for neat freaks; you
lie better than
a Shag Wool Flokati rug
with a fancy for no vacuum Hoovers,
but the play of
your hooves older than
“Leave It To Beaver.”

i know your dam in this darkness
like the shadow
of my tears (totally
without any sweetness and bitter
to the core
like Mama’s grapefruit)
you need sugar, perhaps courage.

the truth of you speaks Bible
verses uniqued in an etiquette
known only to ms. manners, yet
your habit is not quite, virtuosity
like Sister Mary Jones and her crystal
stones. you throw,
but to Jesus the interception is a goal,
a gold mine, none like your
slick bones, but your neck
(shiny with Vasoline)
is full of lies…

shall you abide
by the truth that your
esophagus is well aware of; or
shall you slacken and fade
like the dust on Grandma Sadie’s grave?…

her funeral I skipped. A true
story i have
in the sway of my right hip; me
a Lady with mine man:
a witness to your left lisp…

i’m scared of me. smile!
cheese. look pretty.

Copyright © 2005 Jacquii Cooke