June 10, 2010

Richard Prins

A saxophone’s the only thing

A saxophone’s the only thing
ever made me feel
like a woman,
thighs thrumming with the sass
of spidery arpeggios
tickling their way
into me. I fit a prehensile knuckle
between nose and brow
and dig at the delicious chaos there.
One of my lovers used to privately convulse
like this in our aftermaths. Tingling
showers of notes leave me
no choice. I submit. I am not
to moan approval, but the
feminine breathiness of me!
astonishes. So does the golden, unabating
shriek (now I roar!) that banishes
all smoke between us. My loins clench
the multiple goodness when it tricks
me into thinking it’ll stop. But the fucker’s
got another
rollicking release. It loves
my ass, it needs
my tits, it makes me
hot, it
bursts for me,
and is lulled by the cymbal’s dissipation.


Richard Prins divides his time between New York City and Dar es Salaam. He will soon begin MFA studies at NYU. He has published a chapbook, Pedestrian Prophets, and his work has also appeared in Elimae, Zygote in My Coffee, The Catalonian Review, Foundling Review and others.

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