Wild Thing by Marc Swan
In the small room over the bird of paradise
over the lawn sprinkler, birdbath, the dog
barking at the postman who never arrives,
she stays when she comes to the city.
It is in this tiny room we meet
when the good doctor is away,
when the good doctor has given me the key
we meet on the rose dust-colored throw
atop an old-fashioned oaken door-shaped bed
where I rediscover the mystery that lies
inside her slender thighs, between her legs,
in the soft milky skin of her breasts, taste
the sweetness of her breath, find sustenance
in this warm place. Through the open
window of this unassuming room, noises
of this teeming city arrive in full force
with the thick California heat of a fat sun,
with the cool wind of a new moon, never alone
these purveyors of harsh sound.
She must cross over roadways, travel city
streets, take a bus, a train, a motorcar along
a highway I’ve never seen to visit me
in our special room. I worry her safely
down these winding, nefarious roads, imagine
wild things she encounters on this long,
arduous trip, unsavory characters who imagine
the secret places only I, and the cameraman, know.
More art by Javier Pinon here.
Recommended listening: Regret – St Vincent
Links of the day: 16 ways to find love in the Personal Ads
Film soup (Photographers must see this!)