The Contradiction
At times you ding and make me salivate
like you’re the bell and I am Pavlov’s pet
drooling on your boot. Your sigh’s wordless weight
like Humbert’s hand on Nabokov’s nymphet,
pinching Dolly’s resentful thigh. You are
darker than the matter too clever for
telescopes. Your eyes are the dying star,
the vortex pulling doomed light to its core.
Yet your lips’ sharp edges reduce to blunts
when their steel is softened by annealing
in my fire-kiss. Satan was divine once---
it’s true. I Fall for you: wing-shorn, reeling.
I love it all: your goodness, to excess.
Bad, no less. (Bad is more fun to undress.)
Copyright © Taylar Lane | Year Posted 2018
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