"voyeur" poems
*As our dew points match, lead me out into the open moonlight
Then take my hand and come with me to share this glorious night
Sin smiling Angels look down on us in the night's cocoon
Safely sheltered beneath his broad shoulders our bodies completely attune
Her pale skin denied The moonbeams as I eclipses them above her
Shivering to the cadence of the night with the moonlight as a ******
The cool night air hasn't chilled her warm summer lips
The stars reflected in our eyes, each shimmering thoughts a kiss
Ethereal night mist rises from our slowly moving bodies
His warmth tastes of golden light, dancing to simple melodies
Shimmering in dusk's glow the rapture subsides in a glistening shudder
Splendorous waves of euphoric flood, as we complete each other as lovers*
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 6:55 AM UTC
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:
The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions
etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas
her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
two fingers clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion
the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment
the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
She loves tasting herself
I love tasting her too
The only thing better than her taste
Is enjoying the view
Apr 11, 2022
Apr 11, 2022 at 7:47 PM UTC
Sitting in my room
A ****** is the moon
I stare back at her
Gone when I wake at noon
She's always gone too soon
Who do you run to?
When you just want comfort
When you just want to be cured
I just want to be cured
I just want to be cured
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
This poem casts a line from insomnia to morning
On the wind of a prayer that whatever bites, holds on.
See I have counted eleven score and ten,
with rainbow like curves of my neck -
contemptuous beasts leaping in formation
each bleating out a preach of vague platitudes;
A narrative for the night sky.
My hands clamour at keys for escape
until I tumble headfirst into a web so vast
it has ensnared the whole world wide -
millennials are living in-ter-net over in-the-world;
a new ultraviolence against humanity.
I beat my words into the screen until it breaks;
shattering scarlet emoticons like confetti
pouring over language as if it were a compliment.
My mind massages shapeless polypous thoughts
like tight constricted muscles aching for release.
3am casts these philosophies into horses,
whipping them into shape and speed
before the eyes of this statuesque ******
This anxious wakefulness begs my manic self to dance;
suggestively ********* tickets to ride like cleavage.
Sleep is fast becoming a neglected former engagement;
as my mind trips over fallen heroes
wades through my favourite mistakes
in a wonderland unfolding faster than I can fall
while the world beyond my window remains dark.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
the moon through the tree
peeking through like a ******
shining full on naked bodies
staring back at her
the illusion of division
everywhere the center of her
smoke and bare dimness
where did the moon go
time doesn't quite stop here
but don't look past your self too far
it is here and now
the balance of fools
the boldness of orange stripes
the old lion moon rises
the flight of hawks
above clouds and thought and fear
outside the game
writing the subscript
taking the leap
the lion's head opens
sand and soul
warm smiles and beauty
i can see where the moon is going now
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
I tore the fabric of space
Interrupting my affectionate stalking
Spurts of longing, interspersed
with spasms of premature *****
In vain, hankering to attain that next level rush
*Oh you're a ***** girl aren't you*
That's when I was discovered...
Her shrieks royally flushing my cheeks with shock
-Superseded by pallid chagrin
I fumble to bail,
Pants entrenched around my ankles
Premeditative,
Of absent-mind, in haste
Prime directive a method of escape
Evasion failing
Detection:
Imminent
Reflecting a grim lack of circumspection,
accursed **********
Trying to conceal my turgid ********
Her father particularly beyond reason
And not fond of my indecency for his daughter
Proceeds pummeling me to death with my beloved binoculars
Devoid of clairvoyance;
I am coincidentally sent
outward toward oblivion
Bon voyage through the portal
Falling facefirst into an abysmal wormhole
Its then I voyaged backward through time
To the moment of Creation
And witnessed the universe
**** itself from naught to existence
Spewing forth such cataclysmic splendor
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
I've mentioned the new puppy before
so it won't come as a surprise
that I'm reading a book about how dogs think.
I want to know how the flea collar feels
around his thickening neck, next to the skull
and crossbones collar, and why he tucks
his tail under when he sleeps,
and if when he is, for a few hours, in the crate,
which seems cozy enough, he devises
a plan to pay me back for this captivity.
I want to understand his relentless
drive to be where I am, to trod down the hall
and back again with his heavy paws
("That is going to be a big dog," everyone says)
even into the bathroom, which I typically
prefer to be private.
He won't go out in the rain unless
I'm standing out there too, both of us soaked
to the bone. He won't sleep without one eye
on me if I move from the space beside him.
Why would this animal
devote himself to me so utterly, I who
really can't be trusted not to throw shoes
or swat a nose when his love bites bite
too hard. I who throw a fit about the ***
just inside the door, I who deny him access
to the cat. I who write poems
about his private life and study him like a ******
while he goes on sleeping.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
I saw her light fading
Through veiled window shades
That unbelievable glow
Kills everything else the Earth made
I don't know where she came from
Heaven, Hell or in-between
All I know is that what she does
Is shock me, thrill me, rope me up and **** me
The genesis of such a creature
Is a mystery to me
Did she crawl out of a hole
And sprout like a flower?
Or was she always there
Will she always be as beautiful as she is now?
I know something like that
Is in the eye of the ******
But how could you refuse to admit
That this thing is special?
That it's not normal?
That you've never seen such witchcraft?
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
This is the Devil’s hour.
It’s when George Lutz hears the ghosts
And murders his family in Amityville Horror.
Shia Labeouf get’s high on acid at 3:15.
I decide to write a poem.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
For 4 hours
I’ve been trapped in the Internet.
From Facebook posts about feminism
To related searches on Google.
“Mexican **** Takes Huge American ****
A video of a man receiving oral from
An eighteen-year-old Hispanic girl.
After ******* on her face,
He spits in her mouth
And slaps her with a foam finger
That says, “America is #1”
The cameraman then says in Spanish,
“Still happy you’re doing ****
------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I watched this woman degrade herself
It became hauntingly aware
That I could have stopped watching at any time.
The men in the video were pigs
But then what does that make me?
A ****** A lonely man?
Not to say I gained pleasure from this.
I don’t get off on
Women being demoralized by
A ***** (the true icon of male dominance)
For the ****** entertainment of others
Man is not a wolf,
Man is a parasite.
(My self-included)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
My eyes are made of glass
My head like a bag of hammers
Insomnia got the best of me.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
Could the sun be
just
a hole up there—
that if I could leap
would enter that breach of light
Someone!
Throw me a line!
Give me a reason
There’s never enough
in this life of breathing!
Someone!
Explain why dreams roll a soul
toward the cliffs of day
Wakes to ache
then stuffs its mouth
with necessary same
Inhale—
button shirt—brush hair
Exhale—
necessary glance in the mirror
(yes, still there)
A lifetime!
in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water
(Yeah— still there)
in endless caverns of tired eyes
above mouth still trying
to say SOMETHING!
from ever smaller eternities
in the glass-flat empty....
Please! Someone explain!
this draw of breath
one forcing itself upon another's
life
of beating —
Violence in my chest!
Why hearts don’t sleep—
and I wind up watching
again and again—till
I am the ******
...Morning lies
in the mists of a humid *****
who moans and sweats
and boils her hips—
and I wind up watching!?
“Will someone please…!"
...and I wind up watching
bedspread, bed sore, death bed
till you’re breathing easy
when she sits and picks
her collapsed bouffant
damning the makeup
that got crushed in the sheets
…Morning
Lies--
with no expectancy
both tired of knowing...
*...The Devil lost his balance
in my presence one night*
...tired of knowing—
THE WILL!
THAT WILL!
...walk away
or continue to play
I could open this screen!
watch the world STEP BACK!
SLAP FLAT!
as trees and dwellings flush like quail
to prop their tottering panic
against the blue—
You—assume composure...
compose assumptions
Await my next—
Move like a spy
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
Voluptuous curves of spiral galaxy,
Ring nebula's exposed areolas;
Hubble, companero of space ******
*give me bliss, more cosmic ****
Apr 19, 2012
Apr 19, 2012 at 9:45 PM UTC
Years later
Bathsheba's psychiatrist
Was analysing the tryst
Between King David
And her.
It was no tryst
Said she.
What a slur.
He was a ******
And an opportunist.
An amoeba would concur
Said the psychiatrist
That a shower screen
And being more demure
Would have been
Quite spiritually enterprising.
You cannot expect
Kind David to desist
From objectifying your femurs
And a cracking pair of amethysts.
Don't treat me
Like some calculating
Hormone Exchange Unit
You sexist misogynist.
You are not fit
To analyse me.
You say your name's Freud
But you're wholly devoid
Of any insight
Of what is amiss
Or my troubles might be.
Not one piece of grit
Have you put in my oyster.
You obsequious churl
I'm a girl you don't mess with.
I could have you hung.
But instead she dismissed him
and booked an appointment
With a certain professor
Who went by the name of
Carl Gustav Jung.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
Her gaze meets mine—where winter waits between breaths,
Firelight shadows slowly lick our chilled skin.
A fingertip hovers, trembling near lips—undressed,
Desire coils like a cat, silent—waiting to begin.
Firelight shadows slowly lick our chilled skin.
Explorers, bare as breath, past our door, trembling, new.
Desire coils like a cat, silent—waiting to begin.
Million eyes, ****** stars discover honey drops—our dew.
Explorers, bare as breath, past our door, trembling, new.
We wade, as dawn drips milk between thighs—our cool secret stream.
Million eyes, ****** stars discover honey drops—our dew.
Warm rain, our embrace, drips—carved in stone, floats, a dream.
We wade, as dawn drips milk between thighs—our cool secret stream.
******* glow with sweat, leaves cling as acorns—past loves a dying star.
Warm rain, our embrace, drips—carved in stone, floats, a dream.
Each moan, a vision, an old love’s scent, each kiss—our final shore.
******* glow with sweat, leaves cling as acorns—past loves a dying star.
Her gaze meets mine—where winter waits between breaths.
Each moan, a vision, an old love’s scent, each kiss—our final shore.
A fingertip hovers, trembling near lips—undressed.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 6:00 PM UTC
Our moon slips red—eclipse’s ****** shadow cups her breast.
She lies still, a fawn, beneath my tear-brimmed eyes.
Her breath—dream’s morning dew?—a whispered request?
Light turns slowly, touch between her parted thighs.
She moans a whispered song—arching, “come to me.”
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 6:21 PM UTC
objectification is very much a cul de sac,
it's a one way street...
to objectify is to
allow an animate object a
confirmation of an all-pervasive control...
objectification =
the inability of an object to become
a self-serving subject -
no hammer ever managed
to self-serve itself into a role of a screwdriver...
to be objectified is to have no
self-serving subject, i.e. a self;
how can a woman ever be "objectified"
when she subjects herself to both
the object (that's her body) and
the subject (that's her mind) -
or, objects to the object stated -
whereby by "objectification" there's
a reinforcement of being subject to the object...
her body, which reinforces her
subjectivity -
when man is prone to objectification,
as pronouncing his extended members,
a woman is prone to subjection -
irony on the ob- prefix,
wasn't it ever reverse infatuation?
sure, not all the subplots appear
in being "objectified" -
but at least being "objectified"
does not equate to being subject to a man's
will...
if you can't deal with
the "extremes": is being "objectified" as bad
as being subject to a niqab?!
besides the point,
i can't believe that one animate thing can
make another animate thing objectified -
in the purest sense of:
deeming an animate thing
inanimate to be: a thing observed
without a self-serving self-aware ******
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
one foot in every world
one foot in every word
prophetess of yore,
foreseeing farseeing,
recoding recording
mundane supermarket voyages,
become paradoxical
holy lover spats
for all of us
become her
become her poems,
travelogues, snippets
of marvel at the DNA
each thinking
wanting to think
tween us and no other
she does not know me
but she has felt my
foolishness here
connecting like no other
in a long time,
have listened to each record
in the Queen-bee's collection,
she unknowing, mine,
her favor returned
verbal scientist
she uncovered discovered
a small gate on the edge
of the map of her brain,
that led here her her here where
t her e
am amazed
she sees me
like no other
voyageur ******
but I cannot
Write like Deborah
no but I can
Write of Deborah
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
At the risk of sounding sexist
I’d like to pay my highest respects today
to the girl at my accountant’s
with the beautiful *******
Usually the only things that jiggle there
are the numbers on the ledger,
but today a couple of numbers
stuck out for me to admire.
She knew it all added up spectacularly well
as she bent down obligingly
and pointed out where I should sign
and showed me what I needed to see.
She knew and I knew that
capital gains and expenses
were comparatively insignificant here.
Saucy insouciance was the obvious upside.
Of course, I shouldn’t have noticed,
but then I'm afraid that's what happens
when you’re more
of a ******
than an entrepreneur.
Mike T Minehan
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 8:43 PM UTC
Can I tell you how seriously I take this poem!
_____
Could the sun be
just
a hole up there—
that if I could leap
would enter that breach of light
Someone!
Throw me a line!
Give me a reason
There’s never enough
in this life of breathing!
Someone!
Explain why dreams roll a soul
toward the cliffs of day
Wakes to ache
then stuffs its mouth
with necessary same
Inhale—
button shirt—brush hair
Exhale—
necessary glance in the mirror
(yes, still there)
A lifetime!
in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water
(Yeah— still there)
in endless caverns of tired eyes
above mouth still trying
to say SOMETHING!
from ever smaller eternities
in the glass-flat empty....
Please! Someone explain!
this draw of breath
one forcing itself upon another's
life
of beating —
Violence in my chest!
Why hearts don’t sleep—
and I wind up watching
again and again—till
I am the ******
...Morning lies
in the mists of a humid *****
who moans and sweats
and boils her hips—
and I wind up watching!?
“Will someone please…!"
...and I wind up watching
bedspread, bed sore, death bed
till you’re breathing easy
when she sits and picks
her collapsed bouffant
damning the makeup
that got crushed in the sheets
…Morning
Lies--
with no expectancy
both tired of knowing...
*...The Devil lost his balance
in my presence one night*
...tired of knowing—
THE WILL!
THAT WILL!
...walk away
or continue to play
I could open this screen!
watch the world STEP BACK!
SLAP FLAT!
as trees and dwellings flush like quail
to prop their tottering panic
against the blue—
You—assume composure...
compose assumptions
Await my next—
Move like a spy
1990
Take careful note:
**Why I don’t play chess or any other game
for that matter.**
“...and when you're really out there
the windows all have opened onto nothing...
Death having long since-- left the scene.
When you get really out there
it's all--
and nothing…”
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC
She doesn’t flinch beneath the weight of heat,
My breath explores the hollow of her thighs.
She waits—unmoving—where the birches meet,
She arches slowly… then my hush sighs.
My breath explores the hollow of her thighs,
A damp note, I taste the waking skin.
She arches slowly… then my hush sighs.
I circle close, inhale where love has been.
A damp note, I taste the waking skin,
Her pulse, a Spring fawn trembling beneath dry leaves.
I circle close, inhale where love has been,
Cool wet air licks the heat her silent body weaves.
Her pulse, a Spring fawn trembling beneath dry leaves,
A long, slow, sigh traces curves—shadow drips to skin.
Cool wet air licks the heat her silent body weaves,
A ****** breeze gazes upon her folds, eyes deep within.
A long, slow, sigh traces curves—shadow drips to skin,
I breathe in her gasp—wildflowers, warm and wet.
A ****** breeze gazes upon her folds, eyes deep within,
Lips part slowly, a drip lingers and falls—lips met.
She doesn’t flinch beneath the weight of heat,
I am a tender hush, a windy night, her secret dream.
She waits—unmoving—where the birches meet,
Forever as one, a silent, deep, pleasured scream.
Jul 13, 2025
Jul 13, 2025 at 5:29 PM UTC
What the Tide Knows
—a Sestina of one night shared with our sister moon
Night’s first blush leans low against the tide
that licks the sand; moonlight unhooks the darker seams of our skin.
The air stings sweet, crystalline breath of salt.
A feral moon, she leans close—silent, luminous, wet.
Her ******* dip the water; the water dips us—oh…slow pull
after slow pull—silk unraveling into constellations—we are, at last, bare
bare-foot, bare-hearted, bare-assed—every hush of fear laid bare;
satin chill a caress, sliding up shins, over knees, exploring the secret tide.
Between us, dampness trembles—a harp-chord plucked across our skin;
notes of brine flare and fade in the hush of moonlit salt
Desire itself echoes each pull she tightens—loosens—tightens again in the moon’s slow, intimate pull.
Night after night we bend to nature’s lust—its intimate pull
a deep, slow kiss—honey for dreams, our spirits once more bare
on a starlit shore that forgets and remembers the faithful tide
that knows each breast, each soft fold of skin
until our footprints shimmer, then vanish in a tidal pool of salt
while water’s slow tempo keeps time beneath our same bare-breasted, sister moon
Brine prisms drip between our thighs—soft, shimmering salt
as we sink into sand—breasts and breath—utterly bare;
above us, the hush of waves keeps time with the tide
while our sister, the ****** moon, unbuttons herself—O luminous moon,
her silver hand wandering, circling, stroking her own pale skin,
her gasps spilling down to embrace us oh so tight into one, shuddering, pull
Dawn’s silk-white wraps moon-bruised ******* gathering the last flecks of salt
that cling to lips—a hush of spent sighs riding every slow pull
of breath. Ocean-wet, sunrise-warmed, we rise wholly bare
beneath a sky tinted with our spent, satisfied sister moon,
and wade until cries of ecstasy between waves swell, matching the tide
washing footprints, sand, and shy shimmers from our glistening skin.
We become as one, a shared pulse—wave after wave pressing into skin,
A sousing of honey and ocean on lips—sweet with salt,
as night’s last breaker swells, arches, cups—one unquenchable pull
before it raptures. We bloom wide, throats singing, utterly bare
of nothing but vision of her white-hot spasm, our sister moon,
dragging us under—flinging us back—gasping—embraced by the heaving tide
O sister moon,
embrace our last slow tide,
your gentle hand forever filling our dreams, forever caressing our skin
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 6:01 PM UTC
I am one of three –
Shadow, skin, and light.
A triplet split from the same egg and *****
**
Make it 3 and you’ll have me
Explicit.
It’s so ****
Being cleaved into thirds.
A ********* with myself –
The shadow is morose.
A needy, demanding *****
Begging to be cut up.
I want to,
So I can see the blood wring around my –
Her
Wrists like shackles pinning her
To my bed.
I know it’ll shut her up
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I’m not that *****
The skin is boring.
A virginal flower
Dreaming of understanding.
She’s too wholesome,
Always waiting for the right
Version of herself to come along.
Saving myself –
Herself
For the right time.
My tastes aren’t quite so
Vanilla.
The light is adventurous.
A psychotic, brilliant ****
******* herself into the ground.
Necrophilia just got a whole lot hotter,
Bodies piling up thanks to her STDs –
Stupid, thoughtless decisions.
Protection? Ha!
That’s for normal people.
There’s no need for me –
Her
To slow down;
We like it fast.
The skin doesn’t participate.
The ***** virtuous ******
Fidgets as the others 69 –
A disgusting yin yang
Of low and high.
The shadow drinking downers
Until she can’t remember
All the bruises covering her heart,
Too distracted by the bile
Smeared across her lips.
The light popping enough uppers
To strip herself of her
Consciousness,
Naked and raw
She often wakes bitter
Of her restored senses.
This ********* takes place
In a womb,
An amniotic ocean
Swaying toward the shores
Of existence.
Two will drown –
Vanishing triplet syndrome.
Only one may be pulled from
Mental waters and placed on the sands of reality.
The labor takes 33 hours -
Finally I emerge.
Who survived?
There is no way to tell.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
Mother Eagle soars, our glistening bodies once dared to lie.
Our spring love, her wing takes flight—hands find sweetness within our thighs.
Mother Eagle, ever watchful, for the day love flies—goodbye.
Your laugh was a fawn, soft-footed and shy,
Caressing my ******* our fingers explore sweet-shivering highs.
Mother Eagle soars, our glistening bodies once dared to lie.
A million ****** star-eyes count ecstasy’s cries—
Their hush reveals parted lips where our pleasure flies.
Mother Eagle, ever watchful, for the day love flies—goodbye.
Dawn awakes, finds our secret cove, wet ******* kissed by butterflies.
Jays echo our love-cries, our breathless replies.
Mother Eagle soars, our glistening bodies once dared to lie.
Now nettles creep where we once soared the skies,
Moss fingers our secrets, deep as memories dry.
Mother Eagle, ever watchful, for the day love flies—goodbye.
We find our secret cove again, and you ask why.
We strip, we kiss, our untamed passion never dies.
Mother Eagle soars, our glistening bodies once dared to lie.
Mother Eagle, ever watchful, for the day love flies—goodbye.
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 2:44 PM UTC
The wind whips
and scrapes the walls
like ivy looking for its foothold
round windowsills
and rotten wood
winter chills a new years cold
scouring for the way in
rolling barrels of fury
tumultuous spasms
unrelenting open hands
slaps the face of every bush and branch
with each pass
the lawns and meadows left
rippled like a poorly tacked carpet
the scaffolding of men rests on brace and bolts
and handshakes with the granite walls
adornments flap their benign capes
eddies of grit spiral, walking tall
Inside I watch you
like a ****** staring at the passing crowd
but not knowing where to look;
only you are everywhere
blankets and lights and even the TV
are curtains to pretend your not outside;
I need not venture out yet
at least,
not until morning
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:37 AM UTC
Like salt from a shaker,
she flowed into the room.
Sprinkling just a bit too much of herself.
Ruining the assumption of true flavor.
My taste for the bland is non existent
However; I need the seasoning to be just right
to taste such a delicate dish.
Nothing too over the top, but just right.
Lying on the surface, ready, waiting to be devoured.
Her mood changed when she saw that I had dropped the napkin,
Saw that I bent the fork,
dumping it next to the ice and wine.
And the waiter; that tight nosed ******
Shrugged and harrumphed his way to the kitchen,
Saying there would be no desert. No tasting this night.
She thought she had seasoned me well, and left me to bake in the chandeliers and crystal goblets of this place.
Alas, she fell short of the recipe,
Foreplay burned in an overheated oven.
Burnt to a crisp in her little black number,
and over salted in the assumption of her come hither look,
and my desire or the lack thereof.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 8:27 AM UTC