Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Featured Book: How I Lost My Virginity. . ., by Alexis Rhone Fancher

How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen & Other Heart Stab Poems. Alexis Rhone Fancher. Sybaritic Press, 2014.

http://www.amazon.com/How-Lost-Virginity-Michael-Cohen/dp/1495123197/ref=sr_1_1_twi_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1415985271&sr=1-1&keywords=alexis+rhone+fancher
Click Cover for Amazon
Alexis Rhone Fancher is the author of “How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen and Other
Heart Stab Poems,” (Sybaritic Press, 2014). Her work appears in Rattle, The MacGuffin,
Fjords, Slipstream, and elsewhere. Her poems have been published in a number of American and international anthologies. Her photos have been published worldwide. She’s been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes and a Best of The Net award. Alexis is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly.

Description: Alexis Rhone Fancher's How I Lost My Virginity to Michael Cohen and Other Heart Stab Poems, is a gorgeous collection of erotic poems and black-and-white photos which chronicles her journey into the sensual world of sexual experience. Fancher's writing is sharp, insightful, beautifully composed, and will strike a chord with women and men of all ages. (Marie Lecrivain)

Blurb: I keep trying to remember what 19th century writer accused of impropriety replied crossly with words to this effect: These are writings for adults regarding adult experience. They are not intended for little girls for whom one prepares slices of buttered bread. Indeed. That goes triple for this collection. Reader, these are erotic poems, and I do not mean poems that muse upon the sensual suggestiveness of certain blossoming flowers. Regard yourself as forewarned. Alexis Rhone Fancher may very well be the lustiest poet in all L.A. (Suzanne Lummis)


Walk All Over You

The stiletto boots in the back of my closet are
restless, long to stroll the 3rd Street Promenade,
looking for a red silk bustier. A Louis Vuitton bag.
A lover who won’t let me down.

The stiletto boots in the back of my closet
want to party, want to grab my feet,
climb my calves, hug my thighs. They’re
ready for action. Ready to put on a skintight
Versace, and head for the club.

They want to clack on terrazzo floors,
totter from great heights, see the world.
Escape the flats, the Mary Jane’s, the penny
loafers, the two-toned, two-faced saddle Oxfords
that guard the closet door.

The stiletto boots in the back of my closet
want to walk all over you, punish you for
cheating, make you pay.
They have a short memory, don’t care
why they were banished or what you
did. They’re desperate to reclaim you,
dig their heels into your shortcomings,
make little marks up and down your libido.
Welcome you home.

They long to wrap themselves around
you, put you in a headlock, rake your thighs,
want to lead you into ecstasy.
Saran Wrap.
Whipped cream.
Wesson Oil.
Room service.
Remember?

My stilettos can’t forget you.
My stilettos can’t move on.
My stilettos want to forgive you.
Even if I cannot.

They bear the scuff marks
of your betrayal far better than do I.

The stiletto boots in the back of my closet
are negotiating their release, want me
to give you a second chance
to trample my heart.

Like the last time and the time before.
They want to get started, head out the door.
Who do you think gave me those boots,
anyway?


More Poems by Alexis Rhone Fancher:

Menacing Hedge

Ragazine


Click Here to Purchase

2 comments :

Let Me Know What You Think

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...