03-17-2016, 12:15 AM
I miss the scent of city girls: cold nights,
dark streets, fast food, gas lights.
I like the girl who wraps herself
in a gambrooned coat and woolly hat,
hinting of coffee and sick exhaust air.
If you kiss and breathe her in
her whole day lingers on her breath;
milky latte, quickly taken,
emotive as a moist, warm breast
exposed to chill night wind.
I miss the risk of misconception;
that cautious, cool, uncertain sign
read from one glowing cigarette.
You light two, handing one to her…
but she does not at first inhale.
Open-mouthed then lips tight pressed,
she holds then lets white pleasure plume.
You smile for just one murmured moment;
now comes the trick you know so well.
You draw her close around her waist.
Her hair is tousled in your face;
you suck deep,draw back, gently place
your yearning cigarette between her lips.
Before the smoke has gone....a kiss.
And while the exhalation swirls,
you slip a hand, an arm, but slowly,
through her outer fabric shield.
Soft buttons pop, claimed comfort yours,
and with a faintly wanton word,
she lets you in.
I miss the scent of city girls,
that whiff of bread and Danish spice.
The city girl who shares with others,
a flat above a bakery; she wakes at four
as up through loose, bare floor-boards comes
the toasted, tempting yeast-filled streams
that dream her day awake.
She bathes in turn, in a cold, damp room
with a grubby, gurgling burnt-black boiler.
Imprisoned within, the yellow flame flicks
in and out on a coward's parole.
Outside he smokes, inside he heats
the chlorined water;chemical cologne
of her fresh washed hair. Her tresses frizz
in the khamsin blast from her Turbo-Fan,
stylising and instant drying.
Her deodorant spray (should last a day)
will die some time in the afternoon
and then she is mine.
She dresses from a wooden chest,
lined with crumbling paper printed
with faded naphthalene blooms.
Painstakingly she paints her face;
eyes wide-open, lips plasticised
and glossy red, to meet unrisen dawn.
Each morning she calls at the corner café.
Her chocolate croissant, too hot to hold,
she picks and tears to let the heat out.
It cools until her coffee comes, creamy, steaming;
through cute pursed lips she gently blows.
Her perfume, raw from lack of purpose,
joins gladly with the moist, warm sweetness;
up it goes into her complex cocktail,
into her cassolette. Then you are lost in the city
with a city girl.
Tectak
August 2011
Note. Forgive me old hands but I have been tinkering with this one so a repost is due. Opinions new and old, please. It's not over yet.
The flame. He or it?
dark streets, fast food, gas lights.
I like the girl who wraps herself
in a gambrooned coat and woolly hat,
hinting of coffee and sick exhaust air.
If you kiss and breathe her in
her whole day lingers on her breath;
milky latte, quickly taken,
emotive as a moist, warm breast
exposed to chill night wind.
I miss the risk of misconception;
that cautious, cool, uncertain sign
read from one glowing cigarette.
You light two, handing one to her…
but she does not at first inhale.
Open-mouthed then lips tight pressed,
she holds then lets white pleasure plume.
You smile for just one murmured moment;
now comes the trick you know so well.
You draw her close around her waist.
Her hair is tousled in your face;
you suck deep,draw back, gently place
your yearning cigarette between her lips.
Before the smoke has gone....a kiss.
And while the exhalation swirls,
you slip a hand, an arm, but slowly,
through her outer fabric shield.
Soft buttons pop, claimed comfort yours,
and with a faintly wanton word,
she lets you in.
I miss the scent of city girls,
that whiff of bread and Danish spice.
The city girl who shares with others,
a flat above a bakery; she wakes at four
as up through loose, bare floor-boards comes
the toasted, tempting yeast-filled streams
that dream her day awake.
She bathes in turn, in a cold, damp room
with a grubby, gurgling burnt-black boiler.
Imprisoned within, the yellow flame flicks
in and out on a coward's parole.
Outside he smokes, inside he heats
the chlorined water;chemical cologne
of her fresh washed hair. Her tresses frizz
in the khamsin blast from her Turbo-Fan,
stylising and instant drying.
Her deodorant spray (should last a day)
will die some time in the afternoon
and then she is mine.
She dresses from a wooden chest,
lined with crumbling paper printed
with faded naphthalene blooms.
Painstakingly she paints her face;
eyes wide-open, lips plasticised
and glossy red, to meet unrisen dawn.
Each morning she calls at the corner café.
Her chocolate croissant, too hot to hold,
she picks and tears to let the heat out.
It cools until her coffee comes, creamy, steaming;
through cute pursed lips she gently blows.
Her perfume, raw from lack of purpose,
joins gladly with the moist, warm sweetness;
up it goes into her complex cocktail,
into her cassolette. Then you are lost in the city
with a city girl.
Tectak
August 2011
Note. Forgive me old hands but I have been tinkering with this one so a repost is due. Opinions new and old, please. It's not over yet.
The flame. He or it?