This thin white skin is easily burnt

and my head is a shade of ginger.

Genteel society snubs Virginia,

can no more bear smoke and mirrors -

I make them cough, more or less.

But out here I’m top dog:

the draw that drags him hither

leaves him gasping for more;

my scent anathema

to her that final winter.

 

He’s changing colour

to a late afternoon in November.

The icy patches he endures

pack him frozen blue into a posture:

John Wayne with his hand

upon a holster; the polished space

where she will place an Oscar;

he’s only holding breath

until the sex is over -

I make him come, more or less.

 

Scenes like these together

she will foster, dreams

of an all over tan, tattoos

where she shaved her pubic area.

He’s collected up the cuttings

and rolled them in a paper,

lovingly licking at the edges;

tucks his lips around the nipple

and sucks until her skin  

has turned to ashes.