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terry-collettPoems
You purloin books from Monsieur Marteau’s large Library; you like The slightly saucy Ones best; the books he Hides from his wife. You Can smell his sweaty Palms all over them. He has an eye for You; you can tell by The way he follows You around the room As you slowly dust And polish around The shelves, removing Books and wiping them Clean. You are very Thorough Mimi, he Says, not all maids are As dedicated As you, and he laughs And you laugh with him Putting on one of Your pretend blushes. Madame Marteau has The face of a smacked Bottom; her thin lips Seldom spread into A smile; her eyes are As olives in snow. Don’t be too long with That dusting, girl, there Is much to do and When are you going To tidy yourself Up, you are so slow And slovenly; not What I expect from A maid at all, she Moans, her haughty voice Echoing around The hall. You love to Read his saucy books, His fingerprints are On the edges, dark And oily; his pipe Tobacco stinky Smell escapes from each Page and you as you leave The library and Pull the door behind You with a gentle Click, you imagine Him alone in there Scanning over the Saucy books; his lips Drooling, his dull eyes Being feed **** Images and his Sad wife elsewhere, now Forgotten or too Busy or moaning At you; and while you Snuggle up in bed At night with the book’s Thrilling dark pages, His wife lies in her Bed untouched, unloved, Unkissed and cold and Has been for ages.
0
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
MIMI'S BOOKS.
You purloin books from Monsieur Marteau’s large Library; you like The slightly saucy Ones best; the books he Hides from his wife. You Can smell his sweaty Palms all over them. He has an eye for You; you can tell by The way he follows You around the room As you slowly dust And polish around The shelves, removing Books and wiping them Clean. You are very Thorough Mimi, he Says, not all maids are As dedicated As you, and he laughs And you laugh with him Putting on one of Your pretend blushes. Madame Marteau has The face of a smacked Bottom; her thin lips Seldom spread into A smile; her eyes are As olives in snow. Don’t be too long with That dusting, girl, there Is much to do and When are you going To tidy yourself Up, you are so slow And slovenly; not What I expect from A maid at all, she Moans, her haughty voice Echoing around The hall. You love to Read his saucy books, His fingerprints are On the edges, dark And oily; his pipe Tobacco stinky Smell escapes from each Page and you as you leave The library and Pull the door behind You with a gentle Click, you imagine Him alone in there Scanning over the Saucy books; his lips Drooling, his dull eyes Being feed **** Images and his Sad wife elsewhere, now Forgotten or too Busy or moaning At you; and while you Snuggle up in bed At night with the book’s Thrilling dark pages, His wife lies in her Bed untouched, unloved, Unkissed and cold and Has been for ages.
terry-collett
Written by
terry-collett
English
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
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