02-29-2012, 08:05 PM
Edit 1 in progress aided by aptly named todd and latterly philatone
I miss the scent of city girls: cold nights, dark streets, fast food, gas lights.
I like the girl who wraps herself in a thick-cloth coat and a woolly hat,
that hints of coffee and polluted air and if you kiss and draw her in
her whole day lingers on her breath; milky latte, quickly taken,
emotive as a moist, warm breast exposed to chill night breeze.
I miss the risk of misconstruance; that slipping, cautious, certain sign
from one shared cigarette. You light two and she takes one….
but she does not inhale. Open mouthed then lips tight-pressed,
white pleasure plumes and fabric permeates. Then you stop,
just for one moment; a trick you know so well.
You draw her close. She lets you take her round the waist. Her hair is in your face
and you suck deep, draw back then gently place your yearning cigarette between her lips.
Before the smoke has gone....a kiss: and while the intimate exhalation swirls,
you slip a hand, an arm, but slowly, under her shalloon shield.
Soft buttons pop, warm comfort yours, and with faintly murmured word,
she lets you in.
I miss the scent of city girls, that hint of baking bread and Danish spice.
The city girl who shares with others, a flat above a bakery; and wakes at four a.m.
when up through loose, bare boards comes early yeast-filled streams that dream her day awake.
She bathes in turn, in a cold, damp room where black and smoking the gas flame lives;
it shares the grubby, gurgling boiler with city water, the chemical cologne of her fresh washed hair.
Her tresses frizz in the khamsin blast from the 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 paper of crumbling napthalene blooms,
then quickly paints her daytime face of eyes wide-open, lips plasticised and glossy red.
Each morning she stops at the corner café and picks a croissant, torn open, yet too hot to hold.
Her coffee arrives, though a little colder, still on its surface she pursed-lip blows.
Her perfume, raw from lack of purpose, joins gladly with the steamy 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
I miss the scent of city girls: cold nights, dark streets, fast food, gas lights.
I like the girl who wraps herself in a thick-cloth coat and a woolly hat,
that hints of coffee and polluted air and if you kiss and draw her in
her whole day lingers on her breath; milky latte, quickly taken,
emotive as a moist, warm breast exposed to chill night breeze.
I miss the risk of misconstruance; that slipping, cautious, certain sign
from one shared cigarette. You light two and she takes one….
but she does not inhale. Open mouthed then lips tight-pressed,
white pleasure plumes and fabric permeates. Then you stop,
just for one moment; a trick you know so well.
You draw her close. She lets you take her round the waist. Her hair is in your face
and you suck deep, draw back then gently place your yearning cigarette between her lips.
Before the smoke has gone....a kiss: and while the intimate exhalation swirls,
you slip a hand, an arm, but slowly, under her shalloon shield.
Soft buttons pop, warm comfort yours, and with faintly murmured word,
she lets you in.
I miss the scent of city girls, that hint of baking bread and Danish spice.
The city girl who shares with others, a flat above a bakery; and wakes at four a.m.
when up through loose, bare boards comes early yeast-filled streams that dream her day awake.
She bathes in turn, in a cold, damp room where black and smoking the gas flame lives;
it shares the grubby, gurgling boiler with city water, the chemical cologne of her fresh washed hair.
Her tresses frizz in the khamsin blast from the 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 paper of crumbling napthalene blooms,
then quickly paints her daytime face of eyes wide-open, lips plasticised and glossy red.
Each morning she stops at the corner café and picks a croissant, torn open, yet too hot to hold.
Her coffee arrives, though a little colder, still on its surface she pursed-lip blows.
Her perfume, raw from lack of purpose, joins gladly with the steamy 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