surfers

Platinum Wig

What's in my head is under your skin.

Slipping it on like a coat,

wiggling its finger tips into yours.

A king crab rubbed in sun tan oil.

His platinum wig shining the same as the crushed velvet in front of him and his flaking, blue beach chair.

A middle aged, sun spotted lawn.

My dry hands paint a crippled panther onto your face.

Scuttling in my mary janes.

The smell of you shoves my fingers down my throat.

My broken education dragged across my wrists.

I may not know all of the presidents,

but I know a bargain when I see one. 

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