In the Red Room
I am a fish in your red room:
just another fish,
flitting in front of your glass eyes.
A fish in your bed,
the pale lava of your bed.
A fish on your thighs,
your inert, generous thighs.
Shoals of my hands stir
the cream of your marble breasts;
flounder on your neck.
Just another fish, wanting
to drown in your mineral warmth;
your thighs to collide, peel apart,
welcome my electric scales inside,
squeeze the tenderness out of me.
All you want is red.
Lava flows in your gaze,
Naked like a stone, you are tender
like a loin of stone,
inviting a million waves
to unremember rock to froth,
sediment to foam,
until all detail is lava red,
and no one can see your smile.
Pygmalion only had to plug you in;
fit money in the slot.
Maybe I just liked it better this way.
A poet and intermittent writer of short fiction, Simon spends most of his time teaching English in a Secondary School in Cologne, although he would like to escape back home to Spain. He has had work published in Envoi, Orbis and Ink Sweat & Tears, and been shortlisted in various short fiction competitions.