Category: Love Poems

Soon Is a Dirty Word

~ M. Ashley ~ Leave a comment

You’ve said soon
A thousand times it doesn’t
Make me miss you any less
It doesn’t manifest in ether The smell of you either I miss
That scent like flowers
But manly in a way
That makes me laugh stop
Making me laugh I seriously I do
Miss you
I want to say
Your tender touch but I
Don’t want to sound stupid and
I want to say your rough touches too
But I’m too mad to be
Dirty with you
Right now anyway the way
You put a dob of
Cream cheese frosting on
The tip of my nose that time and
Licked it off I hated that
My nose smelled like spit
For what seemed like weeks it
Wasn’t funny to anyone but you
I miss that too.

-M.

Controlled Substances (NaPoMo Day 4)

~ M. Ashley ~ Leave a comment

My pharmacist’s assistant boyfriend
gained weight.
It brings us closer as our fingers
touch over the Hydrocodone
and our wrinkles show
and our noses shine
under the fluorescent lights.

I say in a low voice
You know they’re for my mother.

He leans forward and says
so gently
I know. I remember you.

I tell him they’re for my mother every time
to prompt his sweet nothing.
I am unashamed. I flounce
out of the pharmacy with my narcotics
and swing my hips with purpose.

-M.

(I’m starting a little late for National Poetry Month’s 30 in 30. I owe you three. I’m on it.)

Lie

~ M. Ashley ~ Leave a comment

One fourteen-year-old lies
in another’s lap face-up
squeezing the pimples on her
I’ll-die-for-you-sweetheart’s scabby
sunburned face.

I lie
with you, naked back to the earth
dug deep
moist and freshly turned
picking the teeth of a death trap.

-M.

The House on Doheny

~ M. Ashley ~ Leave a comment

I saw you bought that house I loved
on the hill, off IS9larv01mt5zs1000000000Doheny, hard to get to

during rush hour or when the veins of LA
burst and bleed all over West Hollywood

up Sunset
and gush through the Bel Air gates.

The skin of my inner wrists
with her oxygen-blue undertones

(soft contemporary design)
is up for sale too.

Ten million or best offer
(like the house on Doheny)

plus, realistically, another million or so
to meet your execting standards.

How deep, my Darling,
are your lightless pockets?

-M.

Dearest Dr. Link, I Still Love Your Buttons (poem)

~ M. Ashley ~ Leave a comment

Your School of Music staff picture made
you out to be so much uglier than
you actually are so
I couldn’t show my friends, so
we couldn’t fan ourselves with our
hot-girl palms and drool together over
you.

I couldn’t make them understand the
dark-haired, fair-faced impetus for
trotting a mile to class in
the actual spiked Mary Janes that
made de Sade himself blanch—

what pale, long-fingered hand moving
half notes from here to there delectability made
me choose the long sensuous skirt with
the long sensuous slit, (oh mid 90’s rage!),

what high-toned atonal muscle, what
used-to-be-high-school-outcast humor
made me squeeze my thighs together
surreptitiously between
this-will-be-on-the-quiz cues.

Dr. Link—may I call you Stan—
of course I may, I
was also madly in love with
every single silver button on
your early spring black jacket.

-M.