My Kind of Woman

A strike; battle on
the keys clean back and forth. White,
course and limitless.

There is only one battle worth fighting, for this woman.

For all the thousands living inside- sharing, idling, playing with themselves 

to make it through the days into the nights and their liquid highrise 

fighting for the tallest peak, reaching and falling 

(kind of like when your body drops back to the bed, from deep and collective sleep).  

It smiles soft catching your limbs, trunk- letting you know that, indeed,
you live on this side and must come back to it every morn.

Your body is not your own, but you inhabit it and do it down every night

your chest makes fools of all it sees and thighs let in scores of trouble, teeth grating 

leaving marks, also terrifying and bringing to life the many sides of the coin as it dies...

You berate, your challenge, you act like a big man in womens hips

constantly painted lips biting yourself on the inside,
so tight, right? I know. 
It pays to be a whore, and not a slut.  

You're like a little girl, but dirty minded beauty falls into another pigeon hole
grey and dripping sheets form a whole and utterly complete woman,
a person who can tell you the dirtiest things that you want to hear,
fantasies that become real when looking into my eyes, which pool 

their own hard rimmed children; their own deep dark well where a man might 

stash the bodies that he's killed suddenly and needs to hide away...

I take them. All at once- and I like the way it feels, when they're buried forward

into the earth, my clay moulding their resting place, rising up like zombies 

pulsating the lights, the hands maneuvering, all his selves quaking 

me into submission, cause dailylife is the only place I want to make words, 

and raised eyebrows, posturing myself as the most powerful woman.  

It only makes sense, when there is a fight, and I willingly lose. 

A man is only a man when he makes a woman of me.  When the fight is long gone- 

the gamblers rich, or broke- tattering the broken soil with their nimble tongues, 

meandering away from the town outskirts, looking for sunrise. 
Orange and red bursting suns make good their promise in my mouth, and in my wares. 
Tightrope walked, fallen from and the net provided, all at once coming, I am insatiable.
Reaming pleasures, a red arse from a strong hand, and a heart
so fulfilled that I can smile through all the condescending motions of the day.

My cunt will hurt, my pride of head, sweet of heart

strong because it is broken,

by someone who sees her in all her overbearing falsity. 
I am not a strong woman.
I am the strongest woman, because I give in,

reborn under clearest nights of heaven, 
with all that I've got to give.

M. Lucia