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Femme Fatale by Stephanie Valente her lips; her devotcha-ism i know you. you think about her. with cigarette holders, netting and the red. i am her, or i pretend to be slinky and dark. shiny black. an object; deadly. at least i have the dark hair. & i continually think about you & the addition of rainy nights old window panes & the sound water makes the suits you wear & the questions you ask what are you? some private investigator at my door? what does it mean? to ooze sex, wanton flesh in skirts with mile-long legs i wonder; it's not half-bad i want to be cool with the ashtrays & the wine i know the music to play i am tough i could have the gun & the gin-dripped secrets to spare peep toe heels & fishnets there are curls in my hair i can be composed, posied & perfect, with a smudy stare lipstick thick pursed lips, to only announce: "why no sir, i don't believe i have seen that man before." « BACK |