(Writers note: I am re-posting this poem with edits. I have cleansed
it of impurities. 😉 )
In the last hours vodka has gone.
A green lime limp with paled pith
Lies silently on bottom, alone.
I fumble your buttons, and clumsily hum
To the low, post-modern blow some young
Miles wannabe is slowly letting run
Melodiously down in wispy riffs
Your paler flesh bursts warmly on
The open mouth as my lower man stiffs.
Champagne flattens a golden puddle
Like weak piss of my patient, Mort,
Though dying tomorrow currently no trouble.
He’d say, “Ya need to blow doc”,
Like mountain climb stretching along,
High and heavy, leaving little crumbs along.”
Like stardust on your favorite shirt
Mort watches with dark eyes sunken
Fallow cheeks to far removed to hurt.
Dawn breaks the sex into parts,
A lone broken umbrella flaps,
Against death on the gray wind.
Pulling me deeper, for love once more
Your weakened soul rises up,
While Mort’s slips quietly out the door.