consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Category: Spoken Word

May, 2018

you always loved, despite the art
the impetuous
the impoverished
loved the submissive, smaller, quieter version

made regular retreats to holy landings
awash with dolls, records, bad dinners, and holocaust
replete with sanitizer, blood, spinal fluid, and remorse

we couldn’t find that signal
looking, days, mornings, fire, from behind
in crevasses, tantrums, fantasies and heroic feats
of cosplay she-roes, of mystical magical beasts.

You went down slow, imperceptible.
Carrying the porous bones through sand
wishing them lighter, but more important
wanting a simpler story
for us, you said.

catcalls and dance halls,
you took me in ecstatic arms
and showed me what forbidden was
in the mist of the midst of
that ocean sadness, that Mack truck of

fuck, I can’t.
I need to fly, you know?
I won’t endure the thumb
or the girl boy her they him madness

love me, and see my dark rooms
all I ask, is twenty seconds of this
thirty or more, and I’m done
whisper your prophecy so only I will hear.

And say my name, sweet, sweet one.
Sing it like a howling Memphis

July heat.

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Tami Sawyer said

memphis-statues-come-downTami Sawyer said

So we start again.
Nathan and Jefferson came down.
The newspaper said,
“Mayor Strickland, City Council and city attorneys deserve much credit for their years of patient persistence.”

(A pause to let it sink in who was credited for the win)

Tami Sawyer said,
“–they felt they were superior to black people and their treatment of black people was odious at best, no matter what Nathan Bedford Forrest did when he got dementia. Don’t Give A fuck, and you can print that. ”

(A pause to let it sink in who was responsible for this win)

And before they came down, she said,
“I don’t care what happens to them. If you pull them down and they turn to dust, I’m sorry. People want me to be politically correct about it, but I do not care as long as they no longer stand in the city of Memphis.”

(A pause for you to consider who was responsible for the longevity of these statues casting shadows on children)

It turns out we don’t need a Delorean for time travel
just a flight delay, a scent on midday breeze.
A plush pillow with a thread bare
a freckled kid with an AR-15
a random Memphis flurry on a cold morning
looking into the shooter’s den at the Lorraine
staring at the beautiful barista who looks like Erykah Badu
dancing with family at a night club, then praying for your life

Let’s get back to wildness in this year.
Talking back, taking back, taking the opportunity cry out against
a hooded man who calls hismself supreme, forgetting his pseudoscience
when he unknowingly sings that Marvin Gaye song
to his silenced manicured fearful Stepford wife
before performing the fornication that he believes will spawn
the dominant race.

Let’s wear defiance like a wound that when opened strikes the bigots blind
paint Memphis like Kehinde Wiley would
Languorous, wealthy in fabrics, grace
Melanin in swirls, libidinous in words, grace
Let our lens be warped for hope
we are the new world.

You, poets, write a man, gynic, maverick, fertile and bursting
You, poets, echo a woman, jock, gallant, resolute, full with new life
You, workers, create a tactile masterpiece of rage,
then keep it from those who want it, need it.
You, Queers and Queens, parade your music of the spheres,
teach us your bloom, your elegance
You Spartans, sharpen your swords, and your pens. It’s time.
You, students, walk out and let them know you are done
being fucking afraid to learn

We mix our bloods in our babies making rainbows,
both antidote, chemical warfare
We, two-fisted, pound our history into the backs of those
who, head-hidden, die off like chanting raptors
ripe for the welcoming rebirth of earth that will only remember them
as fertilizer for hydrangeas.

The cynics say there is an art to stocking the cache.
Reaping repose and required wealth with a click.
Substituting stuff for status, serving rapacity before the homeless
Serving rapacity before those who are differing shades
of brown, black, cocoa, tawny, fawn, ginger, amber
Before those who love differently, learn differently, worship differently
Forgetting mouths, hands, bodies, that serve,
forgetting that they are strong,
forgetting the danger of
thier inherent and righteous brilliance.

You fill your mouths, coffers; the artists in avarice.
You have no idea what is coming.

The bridge still stands, majestic.
The statues are coming down, Delta town.
The poets still go to the theatre, the welfare, the doctor, and the judge
and we sing a song of
judicious enchantment.
A song of glory now,
and surely glory to come.

 

twenty and six

Zooming through some hill-town we were invincible
dirty Berkshire kids loving company who could talk Shakespeare,
love, loss, and the best dance music.

Zooming in that emergency room we knew it was coming
the inevitable snip rendering an absence
it created space, though. We all knew it would.

A righteous anger blanketed us in some Maine town.
You had sealed that deal with a tequila shot
a kiss, a flower, and a promise.

We played football in the snow.
We built fires.
On time went, and distance crowded into some car and went.

Winter’s tale-like years passed.
A call, a drive, a union, warriors, changing everything
and we were Southern, perfect and thick in cats.

Delicious pines dotted days of wars,
paintings of memories, and ice storms
that tree divided your house, brought love in three to my flat.

But the cats fought.
The neighbors complained.
And again, snip snip went my brain.

In the midst, some cousin made love to me
laughing, blatantly, unapologetic-ally rife
with mischief, then roses.

Again, space was made, we filled it with birthdays
walks and talks and locks on doors
that only we held keys to.

We all went to school
We sat in cafes, singing loud
We wept, fumed, sighed and lived wide.

I fell off the world awhile
There was too much escaping and I couldn’t find my feet
I lost play, I lost love, I lost mirrors and beauty

When the heartbeat ceased a moment
I saw the three of us in that amphitheatre
40 kids battling at agincort

I wasn’t done, I guess.
We all weren’t.
There are still records to listen to.

Zooming to Memphis
we came to the compound
we played, talked a little

I saw more cats, more fire
the creations, sublime, you two molded
in observation and questions- your best art.

We had a meal again.
Again, it was all shifting for me.
My feet were hazy, nearly gone, but the shadow was all.

The sunset reminded me we were young.
And so it was.
It was all right.

At least it was for me.
There’s an equal elegance to sadness, joy.
I’ve always known. I had to admit it, though.

It’s raining in Memphis,
so don’t zoom.
Take the road easy and make sure to breathe.

You all know I’m here, same as it ever was.
Still short, still unsure, still the worker bee.
Still pushing, shoving, defiant and scared, but

My feet are in full view.

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Flurry, Memphis 2018

So we start again.
It turns out we don’t need a Delorean for time travel
Just a flight delay, or a scent on a midday breeze.
A plush pillow with a thread bare
or a random Memphis flurry on a cold morning
(Brings me back to laughing in the Berkshires
in some house in some hill town
recovering from some deviant switchback
and becoming pure again.)

Let’s get back to wildness in this year.
Talking back, taking back,
and wearing defiance like a leopard-print thong.
We are like the women in Mucha,
Languorous, wealthy in fabrics, grace
Sex in swirls, libidinous in our words
Our lens is warped for hope
we are the new world.

We write a man, gynic, fertile and bursting
We write a woman, jock, gallant, resolute
We mix our bloods in our babies making rainbows
We, two-fisted, pound our history into the backs of those
who, head-hidden, die off like white-hooded raptors
ripe for the welcoming rebirth of earth that will only remember them
as fertilizer for hydrangeas.

We close our eyes and let go.

The cynics say there is an art to stocking the cache.
Reaping repose and required wealth with a click.
Substituting stuff for status, serving rapacity before the homeless
Filling mouths, coffers; the artists in avarice.

The bridge still stands, majestic.
The statues are coming down, Delta town.
The rock stars still go to the theatre, and we sing a song of
judicious enchantment.

A search for soul, worship and welcomed weakness in the new year.

mucha-advertising-monaco-monte-carlo-1897-dvdbash.jpg

12:06 AM, Irma, Fire and Verona.

It’s 12:06 Am and there are quiet hours at Gatito Vito’s salon except
there is no quiet to be had, but vague ethnicity and troubled
dreamers wondering where supper is next week and where the
next handshake will emerge in this orange drowned town north of Mississip-

And fire burns and ash churns and so many foxes and hawks find silence
in cubbyholes and sand traps made for scorpions but now they house
refugees of fur and far and hope and wet and the new world in spades
and Trump(s) and storms, cataclysms, conundrums, holes of comfort.

There are not enough water bottles to sell, enough aid, not enough
purifiers, too many diapers to hold feces, piss of fleeing babes,
not enough gas to fuel the flying multitudes. It is dangerous, you know.
The storm will come, you know. It is here. IT IS PRESENT. It’s now the

bedfellow you needed to look in the eye, only the electric is gone and
the water is red with cruiser escapes filmed for the pleasure of
so many internet wanderers, and they know their time is limited, so
precious this time they have to bear witness to it all, bone and marrow,

and we write each others’ books, we do. Like some kind of Victorian
journalist, bearded and boheme. Finding the chinks, the holes. and
calling it all for scandal. It’s a business, these days, the scandal.
it’s all we can do to keep up, to sleep and strum, to remain upright and

here we are, at the cusp of eternity wondering who we can be in the wake of it
all, is all, is some, and we love each other don’t we? Don’t we? Or rather yet,
Do we hope for the moment we understand melody again? Do we pine to wake
and know that we have become enough, and the screen is safe to close?

Your body surges with the cancer, looking for a sweet spot, and you, warrior, let it
know the eye is near, and it will have to stay the interest until Tuesday. You
smooth tiny Evan’s hair with promise as you board windows, knowing the wind
cannot rival this year, this trial, this manifest of scars. It is a day, a week of

wheat from chafe, light from stark, wonder from womb, and tender lullabies.

 

Holy, Holy in the Magnolia Tree

I cannot act with prudence, or temperance,
Guileless innocence, forgetting the incidents
the compounding fractures of chapters growing backwards
cheek staining battleground pounds, the whitest noise
The whitest noise,

Illinois was the leap, so steep and such a snowy night
I saw three angels on the roof, they asked in earnest
WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US?
WE CAN ONLY DO SO MUCH.
The snow was such a soft touch when I climbed the roof and flew
Next thing I knew, next thing I knew
There were two in blue, one on each arm,
That collar was stiff and warm
The lights were like crazy Thracian birds,
They whirred in my head, concussed
chattering how snow was too soft for the higher purpose
I failed at this ultimate act, the two in blue an accessory after the fact
I was so sad I couldn’t care less that Chicago was so damn pretty
That night. I thought of, was thinking of, the flashes of laps and
Pabst and old man laughs and currency for
love by commitees, they would come by committee.

by committees they came, in prides and
congregations they came, in murders they came,
in colonies, cultures, clouds,
braces and broods and bevies and beds
convocations, catches, skeins,
shoals, swarms, smacks and salts
feral parliament of manged dogs
into Florida house in the night

light fades, It faded, I was called for,
I floated in, above, and watched the swelling scene unfold
AND THERE I WAS! there I am
REALLY TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM.
Or two. Or five. Stay alive, Stay alive. Just stay alive
Stay alive little one, or grow some teeth.

Sink beneath the flash and pomp.
Feel cool Saint Petersburg breeze,
the smell of the VW bus
the thrill of the sprinkler on July days
Count the pennies, but slowly, slowly.

Holy, holy in the poetry
Holy Holy in the wait
Holy Holy in Magnolia Tree
Holy Holy operate

this machine with caution, it’s a clever
cunning beast, It can float and flee
Weep and growl, squeal with glee, roar with love,
be silent as the grave, never caving, carving life from
tree husks with success, feeling in excess, but less apt
to be trapped than any other little girl.

Handle with care, she said.
Kid gloves and kid fears
are key.
I still see the grass wave in wind like you.
I  can taste the difference
between a peach on Tuesday and a peach on Sunday.
I know what’s up.

And the house of my childhood was made of glass,
each several window blown sugar,
each strand of sugar spider webs,
each web the finest dew line,
each dew line the stuff of Abbadonian dreams


I want to fly this place, but I can’t.
I’ve got beautiful babies coming to some class somewhere
To talk of witch trials or thundercats,
-which flavor of blow pop is superior
which Roman was right in killing Caesar

I want to fly this place but I can’t
I’ve got shit to do and a flock of friends
We head into battle with thin air for weapons
Doing some other sort of flight fight
And shaving peach fuzz off of Salem
Going into the woods with Tituba
Finding a snake and naming it McCarthy
And filling the theatres with men
Who could’ve sold our skin in gross, but wouldn’t dare.

I want to fly this place but I can’t,
so I’ll keep
donning the shoes and
Running I guess.
laughing when inappropriate.
And being absolute.

Sometimes it’s breath I hold
Sometimes you
Other things include music, pans, mail and soap
A skull in a graveyard
Or the bird that is made of glass
(I have to be very careful, you see)
And I don’t really understand where it ALL comes from- this courage
Some birth I guess – some haircut brainwash toothbrush
Some late night fit of artistic dune painting or
Maybe a ring around the posy, rosy, red, or finger
Maybe it’s the wail of fire trucks
the man I speak Hindi to, the sun through the trees
Perhaps the feel of my Step father’s hand as I rub out the pins and needles-
Those plague him after the surgeries.

Maybe it’s so simple that it won’t be named in any
chump piece of a poem-
Maybe it’s so secretive, we don’t have a file on it
Maybe this bravery is some DNA
floating in some thigh bone
deep in the center of me with all the women who came before-
The ones who fought the war and took back
The kingdom God gave us as a safehouse,
this lockdown, this red hold, inviolable,
this invulnerable fortress we were divinely bestowed
to provide the nectarous beating home
for our tender beloved babies to grow

You know,
Stay alive was the mantra,
stay alive,stay alive,
sweet girls just stay alive.
and count the pennies slow, slow.

Holy, holy in the Magnolia Tree.

 

Two years of a march (Portland, Pulse, Memphis, the Sun)

It was nine in the morning that first year
JJ and I had tied one on, dancing with beautiful women
Deep into coastal night
(only after walking into that curious little store with many rooms)
I walked the Mile, flowers in hair, colors of the rainbow.

I loved all of us. The sea. CALL JOE blazing on the time and temperature sign.
And it was there in the bed of a truck.
It was slick and shiny, blazing rainbows in all directions.
I was new, but you wouldn’t know it. We all had a job.

Just unraveling it took an hour. Hundreds helped.
It covered the whole square and then some.

It smelled of coffee, revolution.
late-night fits of artistic frenzy.
The AIDS epidemic. Harvey Milk.
Brandon Teena. Matthew Shepard.
Backstreet Cafe. Otherside. Upstairs.
Augusta. Montreal. West Virginia. Moscow.

By touch you could feel Dale McCormick, Gia, Nancy.
Baldwin, Polis, Frank. Michaud. Maloney.
You could feel the tangent of hatred interwoven, turned to deep blues.

You could taste Portland rigor. The sweat of activism.
The nerve, the nerve of this tiny town in the whitest of states.
The Oddysean journey for voice and a patch of land.
40 blizzards, a kiss, the grace given by old white men to marry.
A child was cradled there too. Surrounded by love, and the purest of songs.

We carried it, danced under it, wept into it.
Let go of it for another year.

The second year there were different names.
Stanley Almodovar III, age 23
Amanda Alvear, 25
Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, 26
Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33
Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21
Martin Benitez Torres, 33
Antonio D. Brown, 30
Darryl R. Burt II, 29
Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, 24
Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28
Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, 31
Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25
Luis D. Conde, 39
Cory J. Connell, 21
Tevin E. Crosby, 25
Franky J. Dejesus Velazquez, 50
Deonka D. Drayton, 32
Mercedez M. Flores, 26
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22
Juan R. Guerrero, 22
Paul T. Henry, 41
Frank Hernandez, 27
Miguel A. Honorato, 30
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40
Jason B. Josaphat, 19
Eddie J. Justice, 30
Anthony L. Laureano Disla, 25
Christopher A. Leinonen, 32
Brenda L. Marquez McCool, 49
Jean C. Mendez Perez, 35
Akyra Monet Murray, 18
Kimberly Morris, 37
Jean C. Nieves Rodriguez, 27
Luis O. Ocasio-Capo, 20
Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25
Eric I. Ortiz-Rivera, 36
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32
Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25
Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37
Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24
Christopher J. Sanfeliz, 24
Xavier E. Serrano Rosado, 35
Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, 25
Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34
Shane E. Tomlinson, 33
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25
Luis S. Vielma, 22
Luis D. Wilson-Leon, 37
Jerald A. Wright, 31

We carried that flag amidst SWAT teams.
We were not afraid, but really, we still looked.
Over shoulder, behind.
The police did too. We all were reminded of how
the carrying of this, this symbol
this mantra, this, this multitude
is a blessing, a gift, and act of extreme love
it’s so threatening, really.
All those rainbows and hearts, all the beautiful people,
screaming with pride and adoration for their bodies,
their beats, their bravado, their babies.
More terrifying than bombs, it seems. Scarier than the rapture itself, it seems.
This love is infectious, liberal, whole.

Run for the hills, they are coming. And they are probably well dressed.

A year more, and in Memphis I sit calmly, not knowing my town.
feeling smaller than before. Feeling subdued.
Without the invincibility of Portland.
Without the ocean, stripped of the joyful nights of that town.
But I know what it is to rebuild, by God I do know that.
But I do think I want to feel it in my fingers again.
That gorgeous emblem. My friend’s hand in mine.
The awe and majesty of it all. The many tears wept in vigil.
The candle of protest dripping wax onto my palm.

Well, at least we know there are people available for impeachment.
they wave another flag, wear different hoods in secrecy.
There are injustices that still appall,
and poverties beyond imagining.
Right. Here.
Right in this 901 snatchy homeland of the blues.
So it’s time to get back to fucking work I guess,
and leave the pining for some other whiny freckled short girl.
Roll up the sleeves, and write some anthems.
No rest for the lonely, they say.
and for the wicked, it is only a matter of time.
There’s shit to do, and parks to clean.
Kids who don’t eat.
The action is all. It’s like molasses here,
but the guns are quick, the hunger quicker, the trafficking quickest,

the homicide meter running.

so, dignitaries, I’ll see you on the court.
make sure to bring a snack.

 

In no particular order, you are constructed.

I placed your thought next to me.
nestled it in tight
fed it fondness, gave it coffee
worried when it got the sniffles
mourned when it faded into vapor and left.

I played your rock and roll loud
All night, all day it played
(as not to wake the newly wed neighbors from the child making practices above I pumped it likewise into my ears with silky headphones of purpose whilst the ritual pounded on)
It didn’t conjure. You never appeared.

I traded in those tired headphones for a sweet bowl of slippery gelato
Hazelnut, Drizzled with caramel.
at nine exactly, as the prophecy decreed it slid through my delta
down the long throat. Resting deep in my belly, as foretold.
bringing the requisite goosebumps,
it tasted of Boats, firelight and sunburn
but I couldn’t find your smell. Couldn’t savor your palm.
couldn’t place the tang, recognizable, of you after a day in the garden.
There was only a shiver, slight, and the sticky sensation of want.

I went to the top of the precipice and stood,
Moxie on that temple floor
I brought you white peaches and peppery biscuits.
I peeled off my dress and made offering
covering the freckles in Tennessee dirt to show you

I. Just. Can’t. Go.
My hands were shaking, by God they were.
But I needed you to see. So I waited for the thunder.
It took three days and nights, but I heard a distant boom boom.
I had eaten your fruit, spread it on those biscuits
and buried myself a foot deep in the ground by then.

So I brushed off. Knowing the revelation was not far.
Not so far from now.
Hope has fucking feathers, and a bird in the hand can be a dirty choice
without proper equipment so
Let me bate from your wrist, let me wrap it up: your hope,
and send it to the multitudes
Count freckles, itemize, name each and wander to Afric. Egypt. Abyss.

Let us be quiet and count the inspirations.

Take a walk, tell secrets, and wish for rain.

 

Basil in the window

Shifting in molar, sliding shove ways
I see the day for what it is
What song are you?
How is it, world dwellers, that we human so well
And still eat the night so that it will in turn swallow us?

The dark, a cheval glass, spoke the volumes we needed
For intimate solitude and a resounding hand check
The silence made us stone deaf with want
The emergence of our renaissance
catechizing our throats in the heat

The trees burst like overripe oranges
Each breeze a torpedo, a lesson for the contented, rested, untroubled.

Metallic crunch no lunch close your door it’s dark and they are coming for your television.

Sigh in amorous eve, close to what we need
Pestle the tight spots, bruise the tradition
Take only the most tasteless of pictures

In the mind’s eye of the storm
There is a quiet, quiet clue
A hushed doctrine, spoken in some ancient tongue
It whispers of secrecy, nectarines, and the wind.

I closed my eyes so tight I saw stars.
Got so naked I felt the inside of the womb
Sweated so endearingly, I became a pillar of salt
Danced so hard I was ecstasy, Holy Ghost!
A lover zealot, a rain shaked parodist, a libidinous priest, torpid, hot, pious.

The score was populated with strings, crickets
sand castles
and the oldest religions.

I thought how nice it would be to kiss your eyes.

I would love to, OR, how we might behold.

III
a guitar pick and a romp for the black cat
3 bands later it was still moving and
I could feel the calm start to seep in
We can rest here

(and the drummer’s mouth is open because he’s pounding, the guitar player broke his third string, the microphone is just receiving screams because after so many songs what is there to do but scream)

I can’t hear anything
and planets surge forward
in this two-horse town of trees
and all those barren bodies look in frenzy for the tonight in the ones next to them, across from them, upstairs from them, down the bar…
but the pounding is still ferocious
and how can they ignore
oh the best
part
when all the drinks bought make the guys on stage a little reckless and
shit gets louder, even
and each word is a prayer said over
sinewy arms, ringed fingers, nicotine lips…

And that fateful moment
“Thank you, Goodnight”
the white light blast our eyes
making women wish waterproof was for real
making stagger a zip code
making cabs chariots
making the cold night a question mark for the leftover
the lonely
the lascivious

the cold slaps me
and on nights like last night
I start running fast into the black
into the cold
splitting it in two
with The Queen is Dead across my chest
just to feel the blood pound into my face

I know it’ll come again because
the Pour house is there, the Lincoln there
and so many to see
and so many nights to
welcome
this breakneck, lovely cold splitting Midnight.

(when we replace the thought of us with birds, and release us into clouds that eat us whole, spitting out the seeds)
There’s a novelty to breathing
Held fast tight fat pockets grasping inside hand reaching
Angelwhere.
I wished you would hold me
Just for seconds of course
I can’t stay the course
I gotta bang-bang all over my psyche and talk future like
Wanting for ambition to take hold
Waiting for the wings to melt
I gotta slam into dem bones I see
In my dreams, vain, glorious
Wanting for a darker knight, a darker fight
A false fevering fleshed out soldier
Wanting more of that light, six shooters bright
But it just gets colder
Those sheets just get colder,
that sunbeam where you were gets colder.
That hotel room, that coffee those moments
Like smoke, get colder
A double A
double offering, the sky,  sucked us right in.
Changeling children and
Madly doting lovers reminded me that I could laugh.
For extra comfort I held my own hand.
And the blue up high had a circling bird
Tethered to Jehovah and the angels it flew circle wise into darker
Tree ridden areas for rest.
And I got a letter from Jehovah today.
Those chain letters that
piece together all of the unknowns

II
Whether I be chicken, deviant, cartoon mug or frost
I am shrouded in hair, black
guarded by feet, convex
healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same summer and wisher
I can’t help but think that those rocks in
Virginia’s pockets each had a weight of their own
One, four pounds, one twenty
Each girded in express melancholy

I
Feel ten degrees warmer thinking of you
Gentility in approach
Fingers on the underside of my chin
Hands grasping lower back for fear of slipping
Perspiration lining the runway of spine and hip
Each freckle accounted for
Triple Decker sunshine candy girl has five feet
Of surging words for apathetic ears
I miss that room where boys dance on heads,
girls shake words from a stone
Jesus freaks with crayons pattern stigmatic guitar rifts
And Queen of nightlife moves through the room like some silver
Beauty ghost with eyes that stop trains
And hands that can hold a child with no fear
So yeah, I’ll spout them, three and with heart
I’ve run out of what calms the race, so we’ll see if
Grass will grow on faster ground
On hands made of war, and breath composed of brown eyes, wandering
Consumption just doesn’t work, but I keep it up despite
Monster premonitions and tighter belts

Angel come, come and fit fever on your wing
Angel run your hand through my eyes and pull out the softer girl
With hair of silk
thighs of green

thoughts of pounding hooves.

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