David Mac

Parlour Thoughts

She bends over to reveal her pussy:
pink, fleshy, almost luxuriant.
She says ‘You like?’
but I’m indifferent.
I look at it and wonder
what it means.
To a man this is the world opened up,
like a flower, hot and mad,
but my mind’s still on
a poem I have
not yet written.
Yes, what if I were to fuck her
with a poem?
What if I were to stick
a big hard poem up there?
Would she prefer a poem
to a cock?
Would it change her?

I stand mesmerised
by her thing,
smiling, having
my delicious thoughts,
and she stands up
and says:
‘You’re a poet aren’t ya?’
I nod.
‘I knew it. You were
thinking about
sticking a poem up there
weren’t ya?’
I nod.
‘Shit, you fucking lot
are all the same!’

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