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| Junket in the Spring |
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| Greg Braquet |
Titty Joint
Indigenous to the lair,
Feeding off smoke
And a famished stare…
She levitates,
Constricts,
And sheds
The same old skin.
Her eyes begin to shine,
Coin-like.
Watch her take pleasure from
The spirit snake,
Undulating underneath …
Wild, dipped in instinct,
Willing to
Break
For something like a crumb.
You can almost hear
Her silent partner.
Existentialisms
Seer as a hiss
Uncoils.
It’s a g-string thing.
A moan…
Madame butterfly,
Cocoons backward,
Strips out as larva,
Oozes down the polished chrome,
And leaves a scent trail
Picked-up by
Any full-blooded male
Made alpha jackal.
Not bad
For a five dollar minimum,
Just sad.
Bio:
Greg Braquet describes himself as young poet in an old container. He is married and has three children - four, if you count his hyperactive muse. Greg exists in New Orleans (Recently acclaimed Hurricane Magnet of the World) and lives close to the wide water running wild with terrigenous essence. His poetry has appeared in such publications as The New Laurel Review, THEMA, The Tap Root Review, Desire Street, Sour Grapes, Pedestal Magazine, Pierian Springs, Tryst, etc.
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