Mamie met you
in the base camp bar
in Malaga
her curly red hair
damp from a recent shower
and said
Picasso was born here
In this bar?
you said
No
she moaned
In the city
in 1881
and she took the drink
you’d bought her
I like Picasso don’t you?
she asked
taking a sip
of the drink
and you noticed
the tight tee shirt
snugly holding
her firm *******
and her eyes bright
as sunlight’s breaking dawn
yes
you said
I like his later work
not the Blue
or Pink period or
that Cubist *****
and your eyes
slipped downwards
along her slender frame
the tight blue jeans
caressing her small
but plumpish ***
her fingers holding
the glass
and you thinking
of other things
far removed
from Picasso‘s art
though knowing he
would understand
where your mind
had wandered
and what the scene
your mind had set
like some dramatist
preparing for a play
she sipped more
of the drink
her head thrown back
the nice turn
of the neck
the chin
the nose
the ears protruding slight
between her red
and curly hair
and wondered deep
as you drank your own
if the other hair below
between her thighs
was as red and tight
as that above
and she said
breaking through
your thoughts
Was it lust or love
that moved his brush
Picasso I mean?
and oh you mused
taking on her words
and squeezing
the meaning
from each syllable
that was uttered
on her breath
to lay my head
upon her breast
not to sleep
but dreaming rest
and you turning to her
said High love or low lust
fed by his fond muse
moved his brush I trust.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Mamie met you
in the base camp bar
in Malaga
her curly red hair
damp from a recent shower
and said
Picasso was born here
In this bar?
you said
No
she moaned
In the city
in 1881
and she took the drink
you’d bought her
I like Picasso don’t you?
she asked
taking a sip
of the drink
and you noticed
the tight tee shirt
snugly holding
her firm *******
and her eyes bright
as sunlight’s breaking dawn
yes
you said
I like his later work
not the Blue
or Pink period or
that Cubist *****
and your eyes
slipped downwards
along her slender frame
the tight blue jeans
caressing her small
but plumpish ***
her fingers holding
the glass
and you thinking
of other things
far removed
from Picasso‘s art
though knowing he
would understand
where your mind
had wandered
and what the scene
your mind had set
like some dramatist
preparing for a play
she sipped more
of the drink
her head thrown back
the nice turn
of the neck
the chin
the nose
the ears protruding slight
between her red
and curly hair
and wondered deep
as you drank your own
if the other hair below
between her thighs
was as red and tight
as that above
and she said
breaking through
your thoughts
Was it lust or love
that moved his brush
Picasso I mean?
and oh you mused
taking on her words
and squeezing
the meaning
from each syllable
that was uttered
on her breath
to lay my head
upon her breast
not to sleep
but dreaming rest
and you turning to her
said High love or low lust
fed by his fond muse
moved his brush I trust.
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