Friday, June 22, 2012

Don't Tell Me Your Name

Don’t tell me your name

Don’t tell me your name;
I won’t remember it anyway
because I killed those brain cells
two or three bottles back.

Just call me Sunday morning regret
and scream whatever you want
in the darkness.

You told me that you left
your vanilla suit at the cleaners
but you won’t need it
on this bad boy escape.

All I want from you
can be had without words
and what you need
requires no long thoughtful gaze.

I want to give you stubble
burns on your thighs,
rolling back spasms
and make you question
everything your mother told you.

In return I’ll take
your nail track brands,
lipstick smudges
and your lingering guilt
home with me in the morning.

You can be a slut for a day
and I will wear my Mickey Rourke mask
until we wash off the night
and go back to our assigned seats.

8 comments:

TALON said...

Wow! There was so much greatness in here, I can't pick any particular part. You captured one of those nights brilliantly. Seriously good. :)

Terresa said...

Yeow! Steaming. Ditto what Talon said, "seriously good." (I think I need to open a window now and cool off...)

Neva Flores said...

You have definitely penned one of THOSE nights wonderfully......

Claudia said...

pheeew - personally i prefer the "love included" package when it comes to sex - but this storm vision was a nice place to be…passionate writing Steven!

Khakjaan Wessington said...

Good job. This is probably the most complete of your erotic poems.

Timoteo said...

Really enjoyed this. And noticed that your labels for this poem include all of the things that make life worthwhile!

bewitched said...

love this! do so enjoy reading your words.

Eden Baylee said...

Just when I thought you couldn't get more raw...
made me yearn for stubble burns.
eden