Dirty for a Whisper of Green -- The Muse Mongers Motel Poetry Archives

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Subject: Dirty for a Whisper of Green

Author:
Sasha

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Date Posted: 22:01:51 01/14/08 Mon

Dirty, for a Whisper of Green

Private dancer,
she moved willow-like
to bow low, in
sick breezes...

she never broke,
but she’d bend
to your
will
for a price...
and there was always a price

you whispered green nothings
in her ear
and she swayed,
hating you

silken-smooth
and pretty
just the way you like her

she seared herself
to your whimper flesh
of rain
so cold, the night,
on her bed of nails...

and all the while
she ached to go
all the way down...
below grass

she was yours, in ink,
for a time,
tattooed, to the dirty side
of dusk...
just another half peeled
temptress,
dead on the inside

and she waited for
that stroke
of inner midnight,
when innocence would return
to the inside of eyes,
and thighs,
bloodied
and bruised,
but open for business

she bled
as women do,
betrayal
soaked the sheets
all night long,
and smirked back in its
“I told you so”
voice

and she wept
from the throbbing hollow
of night,
still aflame
from the language
of swords
as she rode you
all the way
home
for a whisper of green

her woman darkness
smelled of you,
and stung
from the opinions
you thrust
deep and hard,
just to drive home, your point

and her response was beautiful
each word
fell
as liquid fire,
and she made you stand up
in her presence,
and beg for more words

but like all who came
before you,
you spat obscenities
in her mouth
till she was sick
all over her good linen

set alight by the neon sign she wore
on her heart, that read

“there were
no gentlemen here”

© Sasha ‘06

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