"tov" poems - Hello Poetry

we're on a break, meaning we catharsis **** often in public places, often with an edge of violence, much like the session in the family restroom, here at Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty). still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up." and the brisket is salty. or it's the leftovers from her forehead. she should have cut her fingernails. thinking of a way to hide the blood trails running wild on the back of my t-shirt. catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says. Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system and a white-haired woman with gelatinous arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along to "Teddy Bear." the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my half-empty/half-full glass of water. and I'm afraid to take a drink. here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break, meaning we don't see each other's parents. don't nod and listen. and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?" hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school. her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago she told me to look up a complicated position via iKamastutra on my phone because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what this machine [her body] can do." but I hate when she says **** like that. catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg of my fantasy. harder, harder and before I finish, she insists on swallowing and it makes me uncomfortable but we're on break, and to argue would be a crucifixion to this "vacation." I think about Elvis. and wonder if any woman is still alive that swallowed his *** and when it's down to just one, does that mean anything? "well that was fun," Em says. her mascara wasted. the brisket is salty. I take a generous drink of water. I hear the sound of breaking glass. the waitress has busted a bottle of ketchup in her rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup. "mazel tov," I say.

0

Jan 31, 2013

Jan 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC

jj-hutton

#nsfw

we're on a break, meaning we catharsis **** often in public places, often with an edge of violence, much like the session in the family restroom, here at Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty). still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up." and the brisket is salty. or it's the leftovers from her forehead. she should have cut her fingernails. thinking of a way to hide the blood trails running wild on the back of my t-shirt. catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says. Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system and a white-haired woman with gelatinous arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along to "Teddy Bear." the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my half-empty/half-full glass of water. and I'm afraid to take a drink. here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break, meaning we don't see each other's parents. don't nod and listen. and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?" hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school. her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago she told me to look up a complicated position via iKamastutra on my phone because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what this machine [her body] can do." but I hate when she says **** like that. catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg of my fantasy. harder, harder and before I finish, she insists on swallowing and it makes me uncomfortable but we're on break, and to argue would be a crucifixion to this "vacation." I think about Elvis. and wonder if any woman is still alive that swallowed his *** and when it's down to just one, does that mean anything? "well that was fun," Em says. her mascara wasted. the brisket is salty. I take a generous drink of water. I hear the sound of breaking glass. the waitress has busted a bottle of ketchup in her rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup. "mazel tov," I say.