Grasshoppers Lie Heavy

L.A. to the Bay, pompous autumn waits.

Uprooted, then en route,
eighteen threw off the brutes
and their molls perched on pedestals,
noses in penny dreadfuls.
For a cafeteria's wage,
death of dull dishroom days
stalled by keys left on dumbwaiter trays.

Down the steps to fetch her lancet pen,
and stunned, by reflex you asked.
At first she hedged, but then laying qualms to rest:
schwa stickers attached to your sci-fi paperback.

First date nosebleed spurs tales of bare-knuckle defeats...
Snowflakes in time come to see off the year.
You cried for one to sit; it kissed your ear.
Her show played in mimes, but you pleaded to hear.
Then just like the drift, she disappeared...

With no sister ship slain by his side,
and so off her list, sunken Tirpitz lies.

Alone his first gig, stagefright ignites.
But no convert's missed, once assured his tithe.

Homeward, mop-sopped to your knees.
Tonight, just sour grapes, bitter sweets
left to brave February's brutal gust;
chimneys weep sooty dust.
Phantom limbs trip left and right
them tripped on runner's high.
Below the window of your Walkman you hide.

Your gate code punched, when a looming shadow nears,
as your heartbeats, her steps, race to first.
And she deftly thrusts through the shield of your sneer:
"Hey, you know you're my password?"
I am? "Well, you're backward..."

She locks your arm. Key turned, returned to your guard...
In her gingerbread prison, here now you submit.
Though never full, you're fed; so you hit the switch.
On your bed's rumpled linens, a lidless Vaseline sits.
"Shall I leave you," she says, "here to Philip Dick?"

Thoughts sift in the waiting room:
Why does she play bright to your gloom
past a year on a stalled friendship's sails?

On a malady your thoughts are stuck,
and the organ on which it struck,
in the everpresent scent of her trail.

Then you wake by a bell with a ring.
In her white gown, crept up she beams;
and you marvel, glimmer of her cheek unveiled.

She loves you...

...and now you're left with no defences. Well, who'd have guessed this? You stand unsure. She lures with a tease, "Oh sweetie, you're right: you wear your hard-on in a sleeve." So how's that compromise?

And dude, you love her. When your paws were thrashed sparring with the tide, from your Grace Darling's beacon light fell an oar. Let pure lose to pure...

You stroke her temples. She gushes as she guides,
and pulls you up inside her thighs.

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