Love Me

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Love me like we’re
lost in the woods on
a moonless night,
being serenaded by
the wind, and the
ominous sounds of
a chainsaw and
maniacal laugher.

Love me like a pole
crashing into the yard,
live wires leaving their
streaks on the lush green
grass.

Love me without thought,
without asking, without
wondering if you paid
the light bill, or if you
should wear your grey
trousers tomorrow or
your black.

Love me when you’re
stuck in rush hour
traffic with a
headache, and the
jerk in the car
next to
you is blasting
hip hop
so loud, you can
feel your seat
vibrating.

Love me in a back
alley, up against a
brick wall, your mouth
on my throat, while
we move in rhythm
to the sound of
sirens and street noise.
Do it when
no one looking, and
there’s a citywide power
outage, and the looting
has begun, and a truck
jumps a curve and almost
sideswipe a bus, while
someone throws a brick
through a window.

Love me like the first
taste of bourbon, like
a blessing, like a flood,
like a barrage of light
filling a blind man’s
eyes, like eros and
agape love mating.

Love me when we’re
both too tired to make
love, when you are
lonely, when you
hate everyone and
you’ve lost your
faith.

Come lie down beside
me, close your beautiful
eyes, take my hand as
I sing you a lullaby of
longing, and I’ll
never stop as long
as you love me, as
long as you keep
loving me, just like
that.

What Does a Poet Know of Desire?

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The poet writes of desire
in a notebook of fortification.
Her pages dampen by the demanding ink,
the way words lap and swirl
at her mind’s core.
Her notebook, becomes her confessional.
The lines read of yearning.
Inhibition slips from her shoulders.
She disrobes her longing in syntax.
Language becomes guttural
and primal.

The blue lines become taunt with her desperate handwriting, converted half truths, and lies of the imagination.
Letters griping letters in a frenzied tilting
of a restless hand.
Wishing language could become solid
and have the certainty of flesh.
The poet writes on, in hopes of luring
the phantom lover off the paper.
Hoping art will plunge hard into life,
into tender hours, sinful Sundays,
and the softer side of midnight.

-Tosha Michelle

This will be my last post until next week. Happy Holidays. I wish you peace and happiness.

What Type of Man is He?

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What type of man is he?

He’s of the tall and handsome variety
Bright, witty, well schooled in inky places.
He’ll seduce you with the sweet cadence
of his voice, making you think of velvet,
ivory towers, the first sip of hot chocolate,
and the fragrant smells of fall.

He’s the type of man who knows
how to wear his clothes. Fashionable.
fitted to his slender, masculine physique.
He is habit forming to the eyes
Sexy glaucoma. Sparking a fever
with this sentence, which ends
with an ache.

He’s the type of man who will appeal to
your darker places with his Machiavellian
maneuvers. Your upper and lower body
engaged in political debate. One part
rallying for a call to action
(la Marquise De Merteuil)
The other wholly disapproving. A rebellion
stirred in ungodly places. Places that
will beget and begat desire.
Remember even in the Bible
all that begetting and begatting
ended in tragedy.

He’s the type of man who can unbound
the tightest of books. beautifully,
unfairly. He’ll draw the words out
like the sweetest, stickiest of
taffy. The pages anxious to please,
willing to set fire to themselves if
he finds them lacking.

He’s the type of man who’s engaging, entrancing,
so very hard to resist. Touch if you dare.
He’s a stunning disaster. One you can’t
turn away from. The type of man
you will be fatally drawn to. If you touch him,
you both may suffer. Yes, I know. He’s so magnetic,
but he’s a danger zone. One you know, you
shouldn’t enter, one you must not enter,
but if you are anything like me, you just
might anyway.

-Tosha Michelle

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Bite and Release

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And it always starts this way
You’ve been on the phone for hours
with an aching head and heart
And he’s screaming at you
And you’re screaming at him
Wishing to God you had never met
And he’s blaming you
And you’re blaming him.
Tallying up a score of who
hates who more

And it always ends like this
Three in the morning and
he’s at your door
Suddenly you’re a parody
of every chick flick ever made
And he’s French kissing away
your crazy
And you’re caressing away
his pride
Bodies fluent in each other’s doctrine
You fall into bed and something
that is easily mistaken for love.

-Tosha Michelle