Because I liked to kiss the boys,
you used to say.
And from what he saw,
that sounds true.
Lack of will power, I say
don't deny when desire strikes.
No, they did not push my button,
or make it near my neck.
And it wouldn't matter who
happened to be throwing their meat
at me, pelvis, chest, seeking breasts.
Hot syrup breath and drizzling skin,
I'd be right there,
half naked myself, ripe peachy skin
swollen lips and wild half
closed black eyes, my body swinging
to feel itself touch outside.
This is how I know hypnotists are real,
and trances, a quarter a twenty due
to inflation, like the facts, you see.
Those musicians that are reckless
with their radio rape and power
over women, tossing bass under lusty lines
that speak to somewhere primitive.
Women respond in a certain throbbing way
under disco lights cast in dank dungeons.
A charmer and his pungi,
the venom has been imbibed.
Because I like to kiss the boys, he said
which may be true but sounds like conceit
when I profess it was they who kissed me
first. But he wouldn't dance
(too left deceit)
so he could never completely see
if I kissed them back
and I wish
I never did.
Image By UPI (eBay) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Rock Hudson & Julie Andrews 1968 film, Darling Lily.
