southern syrup, southern dust

31 Mar


southern syrup, southern dust


she told me to say it twice

but I’ve said it so many times

more than that

I’ve lost my voice

grew hoarse

blood lubricating the throat


an old soul song

in a black Lincoln

roaring down a country road

and then her lips find my neck

and she pulls her dress up

I pull over to the side

Lucinda Williams sings

like a young sickness

her thighs tasted

like a hot toddy poured over the brim of the glass

and we couldn’t speak again

for quite some time

because once passed by behind the last exit

a rest quickly kissed along a smile and an escape

and twice turned us sweeter

nectarous like a sentimental chemical

along a foggy highway

somnolent and pleased

saying it a third time

saying it a third time

saying it a third time


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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