Nice - Precious Jones

Nice poetry she types to me

on AOL instant messenger.

Not too long ago she fucked my girl.

How does she know my poetry is nice?

Did K read her a few before she

went down on her in the living room,

did she read her one or two after she

fucked her from behind in the shower?

Did K read her a love poem while

pussy popping her, legs spread on the

coffee table? Fucking to my nice poetry?

I want to say to her: the entire city of

New York has probably had a piece of

your cunt, I bet you�ve caught an STD

or two. I hope K catches it, I hope

you give her something that makes you both

itch and burn and scab up like a super

soft-n-free perm applied to ultra fine hair

left in for twenty minutes too long.

I hope it turns your insides to purple mush

that evolves into pink maggots

that feast off your sinful flesh.

I hope you both cough up molded lungs

that get stuck in your mouths half way out

attracting flies, roaches, mosquitoes,

ticks and leeches that creep in your

eyes and ears and other cracks and crevices,

reeking havoc til you can�t feel leg,

facial or ass muscles, let them devour your

clits, let them sink teeth into digits

til they become stubs.

I want to say to her: do not

underestimate my malice and cunning

that can have your face on the

back of a milk carton in the matter of a day.

It is this same cunning that knows to

let them remain the unenlightened

asses they are, cause if and when I do

retaliate, I want to watch the life slowly

ooze out of their bodies,

eyes and mouths wide as they realize

before taking their last undeserved breaths

that what looks nice from afar can surely be�

deceiving.

Let�s Dance

I sit in a

caf�, 

surrounded by

B-movie

actors

and lesbian

accountants,

listening to

the high guffaws

of the queens

in the corner,

hand steadily

writing:

Thema

gave birth

to Amina

under a

crescent

moon and

crocheted 

a pink and

white blanket 

to cover her

the way

bluebells

cover

the earth,

Isis fell

in love

with Titi

who was

tall as a

mountain,

voice gruff

as a bear�s

and she said

to Isis,

Only death

will part us,

beloved

and they kissed

on open plains

among violets

and crickets

and didn�t care

that zebras stared

at one small woman

holding on 

to one big woman

for dear life

under a

jealous sun,

Karma sits

cross-legged

on a black,

leather sofa

watching Ginger

gyrate to the

syncopated rhythm

of the music,

long arms

swinging like jazz

as she gives

Karma a glance

then laughs

as she snaps

to the beat,

Karma jumps

to her feet,

looks Ginger

in the eyes, says,

I love you,

Ginger smiles

and replies:

Let�s dance

Born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, Precious Jones is currently pursuing her BA in Creative Writing at the New School University.  Her poetry and fiction have been published by Spire Press Magazine, Rolling Out, Strawberry Press, Dirt Press and several other presses, publications and websites.  Precious also loves her three Bs: Baked chicken, Books and Butches. 

Email: [email protected]

<<Back   Next>>