What Winter's Poppies Whispered

What truth?
Winter.
Tongue-tied poppy nude.
Tongues got flayed
On our frozen bridge rail
Built by a de-fanged midget.
Not a death-defying
Mini-skirt in sight. Press
Of unlingual contact.
Slow pat of bone
Against the ends
Of once fast-fucking flesh.
Sight of lines bent
And smeared.
No better lingered over.
One funny thing:
I don't recall
You ever wearing
That wine dark bra before.
Or that pale gallows glow
Beside my mirror.

     I am a software exec. and I do secret internet foo. I live near Boston, Massachusetts and spend a lot of time in San Francisco.
     I began writing poetry a few years ago in a brave but ultimately feckless attempt to stave off a canonical entrapment breakdown.
     I sometimes write with a pseudonym: Yorick_Nixon. I also write music and play musical instruments. I was a member of Boston noise band Inner Beauty and San Francisco improv combo Senator Buchanon. With the members of Inner Beauty I co-authored a pre-web internet published dystopic novel entitled "Skunk Angst".
     Any spare time I have I read Shakespeare or listen to Bach. Bach seems to be the one thing all nerds agree on. I've lost touch with my culture. Though my friend Janet has turned me onto Cat Power. My only firmly held cultural belief is that Chan Marshall of Cat Power is kind of a babe.

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