A rare foray into the world of poetry...no title

She says, strength that can’t lift things is called grace
and knows that it takes balls to just admit
when even your taste buds are full of shit
for the price, dessert is bland in this place.

Tea lights in glass houses cheaply attempt
ambiance, flickering epileptically
while she’s snickering condescendingly
at some small grammatical misprint

in a letter I wrote. Eyes at half mast
she says, at last, it’s good, almost great
substantive pause, looks at her plate
while I provide lame conversational ballast.

In the manner brilliant Boston sunshine
guilt trips those indoors, her complimentary
commentary woos by sheer rarity,
things scarce become delicacies, in time

I do find her barricades disarming,
the old “because it’s there” mentality
moths me to the light of her brutality,
her soft, female cruelty, rather charming.

We find recourse - political discourse
obviates her admitting inability
to write loving letters for anybody
since impulse lost its original source,

now she only changes the addressee.
Despite her swift, careless unkindnesses
Her voice holds not a trace of mindlessness
and her hands, her hands know some secret me.

By midnight, our mouths are red with wine
cannibals both, we fuck with the rhyme,
throwing the form from before on the ground,
swearing like a sailor, lighting her incense
her ocean is cold, but I like to be drowned
we find rhythm in rhythm’s absence.