In the Presence of...

You aim to please
 In a back-door, dime-store, motels-
 Are-too-good-for-you
 Kind of way.
 And me?
 I don't give a shit.
 I have nothing to say about:
 Your tight altar girl, pervasively persuasive,
 Lollypop-licking,
 Catholic-schoolgirl-sipping
 Ways.
 You're a rhapsody in jeans,
 You're an orgasm on the verge,
 You remind me of an absinthe high.
 You hint of orgies and mirrors,
 You're into late-night trysts,
 Naked when you're clothed and I admit:
 I really
 (Really)
 Want to sleep with you.
 So, if I aim to please
 Will you aim to repeat me?
 — In a back-door, dime-store, motels-
 Could-be-too-good-for-me
 Kind of way?
 But you don't —
 You don't give a shit.
 You have —
 Nothing to say.
 No, you don't —
 You don't give a shit.
 You have — nothing to say about me.
 So, I never should have left.
 And I never should have had.
 I never should have wanted anything so badly.
 — I never would have followed,
 I never would have danced,
 I would not have seduced if you had not entranced.
 I craved
 I wasted
 I hunted
 I starved
 I am the stuff that nightmares become
 —The echo after the anger has gone.
 (To Kathryn:
 But light reflects from you
 In a very pretty way
 And I am not easily distracted.
 — Led victim of the light
 There's a right thing to do,
 But I can't see past the light
 So, now:
 There's just you...)