Black Magic Woman

I’m mad, seizing love, one glass shy of drunk. So tones are

high, palms are wet, and mouths are dry. My love, flirting

her rounds through a party. It’s downright disgusting.

Such blatant fever, frisky hands, ever to tug a liver.

But life is game, overcooked, risking everything on chance.

So I love her like passion, away from myself, paddling

through mischief. We pull and shove, skipping beats, angry

with hostility.

I watch her dance, to witness glares, hands mystic in the

winds. She’s forever such glory, as evil as pit bulls. I stand

and pause, and gesture twice, a middle finger touching the

ceiling. She laughs, brakes away and chases.

This is our life, awake and devilish, ghost to woman. Such

our souls, painting letters, thieves afflicted.