The Sentimental Slut
by T. C. Gardstein
At what point does the poetry stop
For the sentimental slut?
Venus flytrap, claims she doesn't care
One way or the other, when she lives
To swallow it whole.
Man meat is her muse: she wants it
All, yet wants to have a one and only.
When she thinks she's found him,
She scribbles verses on wrinkled sheets
Until the last whiff of sweat, cologne,
Mingled joy juice evaporates, until
The ink is all smeared. She worries
And her syllables suffer, and since
She never sleeps with poets,
She never gets the proof she needs.
Digesting yet another error,
She resolves yet another time never
To fall so intensely and dumbly again,
With open legs and ready pen.
First of all, he must have eyes as opaque as smoked glass,
So that I will not drown in his X-ray gaze
He must have a smile that starts as a smirk before finally breaking open,
Displaying white teeth that could rip me to pieces, and a tongue
That intends to lick me into shape again and again
He must have a mind that is full of shy, sly arrogance, a voice that
Implies, “I know it all, but I want you to prove otherwise,” and he slurs
His words not from drink, but from the heady drug that is me
He must have hands that can manipulate a pen, a hammer, a tricky
Necklace clasp -- and under these hands I warm and expand
And melt, and he pulls back my untamed hair and spanks my ass
At exactly the right moment
He must perceive metaphors yet realize that sometimes a spade is
Nothing more than an implement to dig with
Above all, he must know how to make me ooze poetry when there is
Something else I should be doing instead
©2008 by T. C. Gardstein
T. C. Gardstein is very pleased to be making her first appearance in Clean Sheets. T. C. lives, works, and plays in New York City. She finds inspiration in too many writers and artists to list here, silence, secrets, sex, eavesdropping, dreams, dares, the wee hours, and chocolate. For more information see her Web site.