Postcard 53

She's got her boot on my face. Her boot's on my face; my vision is slim. My vision is the scuffed sound of her voice. My neck feels the twist of her laugh. Her nose is powder thin. With nothing but nylons and fuck you black, she hikes up and lets me swat once or twice, tangles up my legs in her arm and laughs -- isn't this just preamble? She is a misabused cathedral on old old land. She bucks against the chest of rattling drawers, and someone walks in. Running out, she laughs again, she knows these robes are stained glass shit. Her body, profaned, belongs naked in the rain. She's got her boot on my face, laughing coldly. She knows, terrified, who's whipping who. The last pagan prayer in this temple was to her. She's pushing up and rising damp, moving my heretical hands where she goes. Her laugh is choking and soundless like her scars and the red on her ass and her thighs. From the first brick, the cathedral was wrong, and wrong as temple and totem.. She was not a stone to hew. In blocks of wet-street smelling street, she rips out her tits and turns on me. Cut them and kiss me with the blood. She slaps me like her boot was on my face, no longer laughing that unlaughing laugh. You're a real man, she says. You're a real man, without even a smile. She should have been a half-buried stone, cusping the earth and laughing at her own tickling vibrations, not a cut and captured temple, a foot on the face cathedral.