Cheetah

(2006)

I don't care
that your ex girl-friend is a Suicide Girl
with big tits
and perfect pale skin
and pretty lips
of blood-red
under black bobby bangs
like your every run-of-the-mill
Betty Page wannabe.

But not really. I'm jealous
as hell. I feel plain and pure
against her dark-virgin black lace bra
above that ass so fat and fine,
if she were mine
I'd be reeling.

It's ok that you said
you were young and crazy then
and I said maybe now
old and wise
and you said maybe.

She's got a cheetah tattooed shoulder
and her shadowed eyes
are surprising
in every spread eagle shot. Surely,
you miss her sometimes.

This is love. Cheetah hunting.
Selling furs and tusks to the untraveled,
buying glossy paper girls
for a bedside obsession. This is love-
the leprous new lover
reeking insecure, singing
gospel
against that devilish ghost of a girlfriend
you've got licking every pole
in your mind.

As I go down
I find myself sucking in her spirit
and blowing my body back in backwards,
believing suddenly
you can hold many memories equally
loved,
but you know no girl
wants equality.

It aint the bra-size or the boylist
that makes a girl good, right?
Just cause she's selling that shit
doesn't mean she has it, right?
Doesn't mean I need it, right?
Does this mean you believe me
when I say it doesn't bother me?
That bothers me.
I mean, I know I'm beautiful,
right?

Next to your sleeping serenity,
I'm up all night scratching my fur raw,
scratching my secret scabs to blood-red.
My eyes are open and alert-

This is love,
procuring night vision.