Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I ain't moved none.

My arms been still
as a shut jack blade,
my look been soft on you
as a barber chair shave;
I don't want nothing
from you. Yeah, maybe

I look your way, maybe not
at your eyes right first;
maybe I watch you move
'neath that silk, maybe I like
your bounce, wonder
what you got there,
what you sound like
when you come all slick
and tight-like 'round
the throb of a hard man.

I think maybe that why you spend
so much time at the mirror, 'cause
you like it I tongue my teeth,
strain at my collar, look on
you like some stray dog
wild-eyed and starving.

So, that's fine, Miss Priss: you
just step on by me, you just
cross on over to the other side
if you want; I ain't moved
none. I don't want nothing
from you. Not just yet, no-how.

Way you look down, though,
way you keep your tight
little fists like secrets
down deep in the heat
of your pockets, you'd think
I already took it, done had you
in some back alley, filled you
full of me 'til you screamed.

Yes ma'm.

I do wonder what you got
in those blue, blue jeans, baby,
besides your spread and a warm thigh.
Maybe you got a name for me?
Maybe something I might remember
next time I see you?

like a locomotive aquallung friend
madnedss shuffles it's
relective silver nitrate reflections

one gasped image at a time.

Darn good.