Bad Poetry is bad. A request from Steve Steffens and Predators Tim.
You make me want to touch you because I know you are a bad boy who doesn’t care. The kind that would never give me the time of day, pull my hair and then leave without a word. Your teeth tear and burn and rip and I cannot stop thinking about how your emotional indifference as you tear flesh makes me wonder if I could tame you.
I cannot, but the idea compels me.
And how your love of honey and torn flesh makes me look directly at you. I cannot look away. I should get away and touch the fur of a kitten, but I cannot. I should smell the sweat breath of a newborn puppy, yet I look into your razor like teeth and think of the moon.
And cobras, that you defeat. You always win. You refuse to lose. You kill and then eat your meat. It’s enticing.
If you wore clothes you would wear a white T-shirt with cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve. I know this. I do not care.
And it is about the honey and that you will fight until the death. And then you will leave.
I’m sure you would make me buy our dinner and you wouldn’t even call it a date.
You are nasty, and yet I want to caress your fur.
Therapy is expensive, but that is another story for another day.
This really should end this shit.