By Gala
Date: 14 March 2000
No Time For Pretty
Got no time for coy looks,
for satin wench wear cut on a bias,
and simpering is out of the question.
I have done all the talking I need to,
and you have known enough of me
to know what my look means.
Hunger is a tangible thing
like smoke between us,
swirling around,
leaving a trail and tang
that rocks my senses,
and leaves me bare and open.
You ask for words to feed your need,
but I've gotten to a place
where words are awkward
and I am so overloaded with sensation
that speech is too great an effort.
I feel my skin start to sweat
this curious scent
not perfume, but something akin
and your fingers in my hair
assume the taste of command.
Take, or be taken---the only rule
and there will be no mercy
nor quarter shown
as we gird our loins for battle.
The only music is our breath
coming in stitches.
I will not suffer to be spoils of war---
cannot be the the cool one,
all gossamer and silk.
You have brought me to a place
where I have no damned time for pretty
and Bolero is nonsense with an unbearable tone.
Yes, there is love---
but I am not there in this instant.
I am quicksilver fire beneath your fingers,
I am Salome dancing to your tune,
You are the light
and heat
and touch
and oh yes
you are the taste
of sweet victory
in my grasp.
I am the keening creature
rocking
rocking
rocking
beneath you
above you
around you
and subtle isn't the flavor.
This once
I got not no time for pretty
but oh love,
I'll make time for you.
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