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terry-collettPoems
If she could have got inside her head, Nadya thinks, she is sure, her mind can expand like an inner universe. The thoughts moving around like lost planets, clusters of stars, images, words, faces, actions remembered. If she could just put her hand into a hidden orifice and reach into her brain and sort amongst the galaxies of ideas she could be brighter, braver, wiser, and there clinging to certain ideas associations like Proust’s madeleines would be old loves, broken heart moments, melodies from favourite songs. Josef has told her to leave off the ***** to put away the bottles, drink water, tea or whatever. But he does not satisfy. His love making is a joke, all push and poke. Sometimes she thinks her thoughts come out of her head and dance. Time for another drink. She thinks of Paris. Summers past, spring walks. Josef’s endless chatter breaks in; those all too intellectual boring talks. She imagines him as another, pretends some young Russian overeager tends to her, embraces her body, kisses each inch of her flesh, pleasure giving. No more of this boring life, more of that wild, touching the new, exploring *** living.
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Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 4:22 AM UTC
NADYA IMAGINES.
If she could have got inside her head, Nadya thinks, she is sure, her mind can expand like an inner universe. The thoughts moving around like lost planets, clusters of stars, images, words, faces, actions remembered. If she could just put her hand into a hidden orifice and reach into her brain and sort amongst the galaxies of ideas she could be brighter, braver, wiser, and there clinging to certain ideas associations like Proust’s madeleines would be old loves, broken heart moments, melodies from favourite songs. Josef has told her to leave off the ***** to put away the bottles, drink water, tea or whatever. But he does not satisfy. His love making is a joke, all push and poke. Sometimes she thinks her thoughts come out of her head and dance. Time for another drink. She thinks of Paris. Summers past, spring walks. Josef’s endless chatter breaks in; those all too intellectual boring talks. She imagines him as another, pretends some young Russian overeager tends to her, embraces her body, kisses each inch of her flesh, pleasure giving. No more of this boring life, more of that wild, touching the new, exploring *** living.
terry-collett
Written by
terry-collett
English
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 4:22 AM UTC
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