"mahlerian" poems
Spank me
Mrs Cleves said
it was all part
of her ****** foreplay
rather than some
Freudian slip
of a childhood probing
stuck inside
her head
OK
Baruck said
willing to oblige
to keep the show
on the road
the game in play
and she
19 years older
and 15 pounds
heavier
and he a novice
of the way it goes
the music
from the lounge
easing through the air
the wine seeping
through his head
trying to keep her words
and image
and her body
on the bed
she above him
he beneath
wondering what
the priest would say
if seeing him now
hand pounding flesh
moving to the music
and lust
doing
what a young guy
must
the Mahlerian
symphonic sounds
the sounding springs
the echoing voice
of her demands
and needs and pleads
come on more more
Mrs Cleves said
and he recalls
that Lucien Freud painting
he'd seen
of the fat dame
lying on a couch
naked as the day
she was born
seductively reclined
her huge *******
and ample flesh
her body crushing thighs
and thinking such
he smiled
and closed his eyes
and thought of Rome
and the Roman ******
he'd read of somewhere
and the smell of perfume
and wine
and he and she
moving
quickly and sexually
there.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
Hi come in I’ve just put on
the Mahler the 3rd Ok? she says
and before you can reply she
ushers you into the lounge where
you remove your coat and hear
the Mahlerian sounds from the hifi
and the smell of her scent and two
glasses of scotch on the small table
by the sofa take a seat she says taking
your coat off to the other room and
you look at the Picasso print on the
wall and think how long before she
tries to undress you and you sit and
she’s back and sits beside you and says
drink up and take in the Mahler and
guess who I saw today and she had
the cheek to ask how I was when she
knew she’d been gossiping about me
to the **** neighbours and you sip
the scotch and look at her plump face
and her deep blue eyes and the red
dress she has on and the overbearing
perfume and how her ******* try and
push their way out of the dress and you
try and get a word in something about
the 3rd symphony or how you like the
Picasso print but she talks on and over
you like a tank her words hard biting with
their Gaelic tones and then she puts her
hand on your thigh and rubs it up and down
all the time her words unfaltering stretching
through the air and I told the old crab to
go smell her husband’s crotch and that was
it how was your day? she asks looking into
your eyes her hand still rubbing and your
pecker rising and you say a real downer of
a day but whatever now let’s just get into
the 3rd and sip our scotch and she smiles
and makes a grab for your hidden crotch.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 3:49 AM UTC
Suspended in plankton waters
Penetrating silence renders neutrality
This shell, a cloak that covers me
I sometimes wish could not be seen
A drifting vessel
I seek peace behind formations
Ominously engaging, yet silently stand.
Crashing waves roll above
The bravado of Mahlerian timpani
Perched yet unassuming
I am the unthreatened spectator
In this subaquatic symphony
Illusory projections
Inverted medusas glide past
Graceful tendrils in tendu
Ballerina specters
Synchronized in adagio and ballon
A momentary desire overwhelms
To move within their majesty
Omnisciently connected by design
But mine is a different course
A willing and solemn stride
To waters of another intention
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC