. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Brave Lori Rides the Tiger

Oh the days of our youth as seen through the foggy but perfect lens of the looking glass of our adulthood. Such wholly beautiful and horrible times. May they live forever stuck to the back of our skulls like those multicolored eternal globs of dried gum under the desk...

The neighborhood was asleep and quiet
     and so she suppressed her giggles too,
Her legs wrapped around his waist,
Her clit a mangled tickle of moist flesh below her clothes
     pushed into his spine,
Her pale arms bristling with soft standing hairs,
Gooseflesh and white below the moon,
Draped over his shoulders and locked about his neck,
Like a necklace of sinewy girl muscles and colored fingernails,
Her nose against the hidden flesh at the back of his skull,
Buried in the freshly shampoo’d layers of his hair,
Her small breasts flattened against the shifting muscles of his back,

She feels his struggle,
She feels it as if it is her own,
His shoulders in the crook of her elbows,
His hips rotating under her knees,
His spine twisting inside of her,
The night air sharp and inciting,
There is madness in the chill,
And as she holds him,
Holds him against her,
She knows this moment will never happen again.


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