Work in Progress

Fucking is an old instrument. Charlie Parker’s sax. Edith Piaf’s sauternes pipes. The hair strands on the back of your neck. The old standards play in regular time, they play at 4/4 speed. They are a tangle of feather. The best improv plays at 5/4 speed, then you die out quick, burn out quick and broken-winged, Charlie “The Bird” at 34, Edith “The Sparrow,” maybe a few turns older, you, a moving sonnet, back turning over, your feet against my shoulders, in sixteen short lines.

Fucking is an old machine. An Olivetti typewriter or a cotton gin. I am holding you to rust.