Michael Chamblee, “Seated Nude”

Start with a room…
saturated scent of cinnamon stick laying upon a burgundy ceiling toasty vibrations of theater and poetry and
written journals drape their lyrics within their covers
singing on their shelves.
Put in a figure…
round, risqué, full figured, caramel flavored,
sweet tinged fuzzy fro, the features must be woman
light skinned, brown suga, full-bodied momma.
Then start the music playing…
strained, hurried, slowed down, sped up…
Injection of sax bounces upon citrus melodied hipbones
one side push other side pull
swings around extended arms shimmies down
kisses toes and notice the ride of the exaggerated grind
Snap one…two – Pop – three…four
Sizzle – five…six…as the crimson cloth
flicked by the matador’s jones and enticed by the she beats… bucks
Then as a trickle of
exhausted rhythm ~ s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-s ~ between the rise and fall of her mocha bosom
the lull of her pillow top mattress
softens the glide ~ smoothes the connection
as infused melodies
lick …
her eyes closed…

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