Negotiable Beauty
That’s what she was, what she thought of herself. That: the title—negotiable beauty, looks for
sale. She was a work of art, all right.
And she was full-service, the whole act. She figured out what you needed and provided it, an
engulfing fantasy, a gestalt of lies. What you never got, what no one ever got, was her, the real
person, the core creation. After a while she never got that either. Maybe it didn’t exist.
I only knew what she showed me: the candied apple, the Tunnel of Love, The Wild Mouse,
thespunsugarcorndogdietcokediet, the whole nonnutritive unsustainable Emotional Carnival.
Did I mention the House of Mirrors?
She showed me mes I didn’t know I had. She showed me who I could be: A wreck of
dependency, jealousy, and lust, spending whatever sacrifice it took for an hour… a look… a
mouth.
A month. A month to move from a preoccupation with sex to fantasies of violence; from
screwing to striking, then confusing the two.
Time only ends.
Copyright © Bill Sander | Year Posted 2005
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment