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Your polished back is arched like Saint Louis.
I can see your fingers pushing into the bricks when I lift your hair to smell October drain from your neck.
You are cotton caught in the air I am unfurling laces in your body.
I move on you steady like a fleet of ships pushing ice.
I want to break it all.
Your tank top strap slips down the huh huh huh of your shoulder -
and I will not strain meaning from this.
I have to taste all of your shapes with my teeth.
I am waltzing a wrecking ball.
I am wading in the dark felt Tijuana paintings of your hair.
Molting my bed clothes,
uncoiling towards Sahara.
All I want to do is hot lust you into dead sweat.
To watch your legs, those bent sickles,
to watch them shake like poisoned wrens.
I am gnashed and dazzled.
Smother me in the exhausted thrust of your yes. . . .
wet as all exploding laundromats.
Darling, may I be the image you turn to when you are heaving alone,
burning like Halloween in Detroit?
I am breathing up your legsssssplitting at the hiding nightingale.
Drift your breasts into my mouth and I will be that doped up, spinning victrola.
La la la la la la.
I want to make love to you while you're wearing figure skates until the hardwood floors are toothpicks.
I want to kiss your throat in a dressing room with my hands bound around the slow song in your voice.
I don't care if you made that dress, hippie,
I will shred it until you look deserted.
You're as restless as a New Orleans graveyard in a storm with the coffins boiling up to the surface.
That's all this writing is. She is across from me and the soup is cooking.
I sit up all night listening to her dental records.
I will teach her of exorcism and screw the hell out of her.
I will carry her steam in my mouth.
Daydreaming of the evening of loud struggle.
Call my name - I will cascade like a suicide.
I will fall upon you like a box of fluorescent bulbs dropped from a five-story building.
I will do anything you ask. . . .
unless I have been drinking; then it is opposite day.
I can't believe you sleep through all this.
Chunks of brick in your fingernails.
Mortar on your pillow a bomb shelter sketched on your skirt.
It says "safe.
Posted December 29, 2010
Derrick Brown will redefine the way you used to look at poetry. His works are often performed aloud at his shows and they read the same way off the page. Lively, quirky, realistic. I am not usually a fan, but Brown proved that anyone can appreciate the art. His writing doesn't try to be anything it is not. Raw and honest you won't find annoyingly rhymed or cutesy passages. He writes unapologetically for an audience of anyone who can relate, high schoolers, college kids, parents, anybody. His words will resonate with you no matter who you are.
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Posted September 13, 2011
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