Grasshopper Legs

by Cicily Janus

When your cherries bleed
all over my white sheets and
your cheeks form a crimson showing
against truth out of indignity
and what was once bloody and clear
blends angles into blades of dried grass stains
and one mere fuck-me Amadeus decibel
played on those grasshopper legs of yours
becomes an unspoken, ear splitting desperate violin
open on it’s G-string,
your body airs out
with no class or standard ability
to play one fucking note in tune

And that voice—your second damn operatic act
Dense, thunderous the awkward placement
of beats and cadences
that belong to that other guy’s drum

Knowing before this refocused medicated lack of color
Will turn us rolling lovers against the surge of natural thought
Those I relished with lips rolling off my tongue
cumming as organic my bushes with red berries
But you refused to clip down the hedge
even when it was wet, soaking in tears
when you were new and I was searing your mind
with my glossy, blueberry flavored lips around your cock
but now, to you, into the abyss,

I’m lost, wandering, vile crematory street rat
A wondering philosopher pair we’ve become
analytical sorts—wordsmiths who enjor
pillaging jobs off of poets and novelists
thinking we understand the right words, characterizations
foreseen actions of even the spoon in your foreplay

You can’t stop thinking of me while you spoon me
rubbing your hands down my greasy ass unshaven legs
which penetrates your greek oil gazpacho like substance
between my legs with your spoon, you lap it up
and instead of staying in bed with you I let you
rot among the leftovers in the fridge,
the one you can’t even get me to clean
when you don’t even have a job and of course I do, what do you do?
You sit and pick the toothbrush of its hair
which surely belongs to someone other than its owner

Penetrating me, vacuuming your shit eating
numbing narcotic nagging
I ask, has this constipated your ejaculating
thoughts
Rethinking one’s mind-
going, going gone blanketed perceptions
Pale-faced and asexual, ovoid miserable side-affective truths
cum out as your repressed minion
its purpose to prove the anti-drug of hugs and affection and talking-it-out
is really an anti-depressant and therapist bill in the waiting.

You’re just a shred of woven webs
knotted negations
First rights of refusal
and lawyers who get it wrong just to play it as right
Bloodsheds for thee credit report too
And the grasshopper refuses to cry
to jump
and sits there with its leggings torn
its violent strings plucked
no longer tasting like that girl-scout processed mint patty of your girlfriends past.
To be anyone but you is a refusal
In its own right.

One Response to “Grasshopper Legs”

andy.riverbed

September 6th, 2008 at 1:51 am

word.