Cheltenham: CHS Facade edition with preface

#1672
Poets are boring
people, she said,
because they want
to fuck words more
than they want to
fuck. I said, I like
fucking people as
much as I like words.
You’re no poet, she
said, unzipping me.
I passed on pieces
of a universe where
the down places go
up. When I hurled,
it landed in a heap
at her feet. It was
both red and white,
together from senses
of a lost cross between
us. I sputtered out.
Is this what you’ve
come to, she said,
spitting. I couldn’t
speak from being
rolled. I crumpled,
threw in my hand,
betted on being home
by four a.m. Feeling
rumpled, ten-sheeted,
I gave her tattoo a fling.
She told me her changed
plans. It ended in drinks
poured down like so
many rain-buckets. I
was waiting for a charge,
& when it came, said
to her, don’t fake me
out, or even try, I see
your deal, and I’m
leaving now, to which
she flamed, blared teal. Abalone.
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