Kickers

 

I fashion for myself silk stockings,
torn of course,
form-fitting corduroy suspenders so
my shoulders roll, so the crescent
of my breast delights in swinging laissez-faire
from the tepid pool of muscular linkage
nestled in the cleft of my armpit
to its carpeted milk bone anchorage,
high heeled in wet leather kickers
whose cliff silver sparkles clank a
patois of two-step patterns,
twill courage proliferating from a
back pocket fold, when it is needed least
a blade hidden on my proper,
to make threats at my throat,
to cut her tie-down if she pulls back in panic,

I lean heavy into the lather and polish,
curl the tips of my moustache with your slick
spit
to remind me of your taste
and your poison, praying to father Fibonacci
in helical conscripts over your coiled corpse
hissing at me
with your long wet tongue,
in my hands the white lariat,
binding the bones of your translucent wrists
in knots of gauze, submissive
rawhide bleached,
to find you bound, to cast you
into the lake of fire,
of my eager devotion,
my infatuation.

TA