Jen Juice

Contraband like me isn’t found at the corner store…
Nope, not the gravy train stripped of the magazine page –
laying on the floor
The one, you know, with the good tits on the cover…
A rooster crows its branches in towards me
The lost and the weary back off like a break in the wind
That I blow into
The mirror flags a sensation I want to penetrate
Like the songs I sing to

Reaching the moments between the pages I sit through
Long roads impend the days
Shadowing.
Sensing.
Reminiscing.
Breaking through the next realm of existence

Lose your bottom of thought for a while
Pull up a chair and sit with me, why don’t you…
Hold my hand, I won’t let you go
Sit on my lap, flip the pages
And let it graze through my
Lace and lips
Like the thoughts that go
In and out and you face
Again…

It’s just another dollar to find
Me through the markers and grass
Not buried yet…
Just a pile of magazines…
You know the one…with the good tits…
Under(cover)ed.

This entry was posted on May 28, 2011 at 3:32 PM and is filed under Jencerpts.. with tags Naked, Poetry, Tits. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.