Spring music (tragic fridge poem)

Delirious on milk chocolate
and drunk on diamonds,
she dreamed him into her bed,
fingering her love-petals in frantic sleep.
Her enormous pink breasts ache for eternity,
and he
ave madly about
beneath the waxy garden moon.

“One two a-go-go, sweet goddess!”
he whispers from the shadows, drooling with raw lust,
“Sunlight of my life, vision of beauty, honeyskin gifty-girl!
I want those luscious peaches;
I worship your fluffy red hair, elaborate behind, and bare feet.
I like to fiddle with seamen and dress as a woman.
My apparatus is tiny, but rock-like.
Are you willing, you mothering armfulness?”

“Why perleeeeeeze, you gorgeous man!”
she says weakly, crying, chanting:
“Take me! Shake me! Beat my egg-whites black and blue!
East me alive, mister top-shot lover boy! Do it! Do it! Do!
I lie here lazy and powerless as a puppy:
I want to lick your hot purple meaty sausage-pole!
(size is not essential)”.

She moans languidly
as he fast (but delicately)
drives his butter-smooth tongue
in and out of the forest waterfall,
playing up a momentous storm,
and their juices boil, lather, spray and flood,
soaring them to some sweaty symphony of screams,
crushed, panting, smeared together by these urges of the blood.

They always part next day, bitter, thinking:
“How sordid, repulsive and ugly it was:
a void and somewhat smelly trip.
A thousand times we mean to stop, yet never can.
No, it is not easy, no. But after all, who cares?
So let rip: we only need friendly leg-over.”

Giles Swayne 2002

mailingbox
text
text

mailing