The Mouse Police never sleeps
She giggles. It’s Jethro Tull playing now, the mouse police, you know, never sleeps. Never sleeps. Now Spe’s giggling, breaking off another pinch.
“I never said I wasn’t a cheap date.” For some reason it seems important to point this out.
“More for us,” drawls X. Spe, having set up another chunk, flops back onto the bed to watch the smoke, thick and white, trapped and raging under the glass. X strokes her thigh. I’m not jealous. I’m not. I mean, Spe’s my bud and all, but I’m not the jealous type, you know?
The mouse police never sleeps.
She is sitting alone in a cafe at noon, sipping dark black coffee and letting the hot, bitter fluid soak deep into her tongue. Each time her lips touch the porcelain cup she remembers them. It’s easy to forget your lips, but this afternoon, as she licks the rim of her mug, slurping up the extra coffee, she feels her lips, knows exactly what they look like, where they are most sensitive, and how they taste. She’s never been so aware of her lips in her life.
"Sometimes i think you’re a movie star and I’m the last starfucker on earth. Roll over, sweetheart, you command me. “help me wash off my wings.”
I came, i saw, i called you,
now you’re tucked inside
the chicago of my heart.
let’s not pretend, girl.i’m all hum and little ho…
wasn’t sparkle enough for your staying.
come back, let’s dance around the “something’s got to give” set
with Marylyn monroe.
let’s steal porno mags from the nether regions of the library
and giggle through the less-than-true-to-life sex tales.
i follow the laws of moon.
no one ever knows what to do with me,
and i never know where to put my hands.
A young man passes her, staring over her table as he carries tea to his booth. She smiles to herself, pleased that he looked and grateful he didn’t stay. She wants to be alone with her mug, its firm rim and the warm sensation it brings to the edge of her mouth. She wants to taste the dark privacy of her morning and swallow it in her own good time.
Her lips, as she remembers them in her mind, are small, thin slivers of pale pink flesh. The points on top are not sharp, but sweetly curved. The edges, just where her lips become the inside of her mouth, are darker-a juicy crimson color. They are most sensitive right there, on that edge, where the nerves become moist. All along her tongue are the tastes of coffee, skin, water.
Two women pass but they don’t look her way. The women are holding hands and talking. She listens to their voices, one deep, the other high and squeaky. She wonders what it might be like to taste their voices. If such a thing were possible, she might like to slink into those women’s mouths, swim across their tongues, and drink their voices like juice. She imagines them: one deep, the other high and squeaky. Their voices give flavour to her coffee. One voice is cream, the other sugar. For the rest of the day, whenever she licks her lips, she will taste their full-bodied sweetness at the back of her throat.
Having lips, she thinks, is like owning a plantation. You fertilise the earth. You grow crops. With the pointed tip of your tongue, you can till the soil, spinning flavours forward and backward across the terrain. Keep licking. Keep tasting the budding nerves all along the edge. Go on and slide your lips together letting the day’s textured flavours swish inside your mouth.
You will have reaped a harvest.