PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I. Oral



The crystal brim caresses a moist lip.



A cyclorama of table-tap, ceramic-jab,

and trade/rapport/betrothal-murmur

radiate in pianissimo against palate-

slosh. With a stiff dorsum concealing

her palm, the server reapproaches, re-

collects, then regresses in mincing

back steps--each step dehydrating me.



Like a canine attacking a flea, I teeth-

tweeze dead skin flakes from fingers

as if to slightly de-fume restlessness.



She halts, collapses forth, and imbeds

veining, bristling limbs onto a floor

that absorbs salivary discharge. Mean-

while, a colony of whiskers emerge

upon my snout. I hurdle forth, tugging

the tablecloth with endangered wares

in order to slurp against that wet spot.





II. Anal



The hallway, decorated with exquisitely

aligned picture frames, breathes pinches

of iced bleach-fumes toward a clattering

elevator door that reflects the ethereal

florescent lights upon a murky figure.



Prior to the lift-off quiver, the lid slides

shut. The cubical descends into a fecal

stench and opens. A damp air seeps in.



Each step forward is a larger stone chip

implanted in my shoe. The walls crackle

dusty, revolving brown tints. The floor

ripples like sewer effusion. A slapped

vampire insect smears from my neck

to palm, but my handkerchief escapes.



A shadow excretes from the elevator

then halts. I spin and gaze my doppel-

ganger. He approaches. Upon every

sluggish footstep, his rectal discharge

spurts from a pant leg. Apprehensive,

I bend forth and constrict my slacks.





III. Phallic



She's mine. I scratch the imprint of a bra

strap pulled too tightly upon me and twirl

my finger around the hosiery hole; both

emit a motherly scent jumbled with mine.



Up and down, fingertips caress a dewy

longneck, abrading bits of a label sought

to be Father--discarded from ever pawing

at her snug breasts or severing her parts!



Irked from my debris, he flashes his chef

knife, but then slices up a stiff and slick

cucumber.Unguarding my genitals, I seize

the tablecloth and charge past no man's

land where she awaits capture and amour.



Forth, I stumble over a trash that litters

my tackle, after shave, a mitt, and rubble.

Like a shadow, he pursues, open-fanged

and castrate-ready, only to collapse face

down to my widened and conniving smirk.



Finally near her, my briefs begin to swell.