Too Latte

Drinking my coffee,
I see through the transparent myth
of your Bohemian, black beret aesthetic
jaunty atop your tight black jeans, politically correct
no-rhyme-schemes- were- harmed-in-the-production-
of-this- poem" demeanor than me. 

Smoking cloves, 
you expound the little creative Death,
Art as Orgasm, the long-fingernails-raking-
down-your-back, screaming-'Yes! Yes! Yes!
Deconstruct me, you big Feminist stud" intercourse 
of gestalt and pop culture. 

Mesmerized, 
I watch the authentic aboriginal tattoo at the base 
of your throat rise and swell, as you lean in 
and invite me back to your nouveau garret.