A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.

but aren't they all random?

Tuesday, February 23, 2021

erotica botch job pt. deux ex macho

Vera tightened her nipples
involuntarily and became aware
with an inner wince
of a lengthening depth
to her crotch canal.
"Need" she identified
the feeling as. Pathetic!

How can one need 
what one doesn't even want?
More to the point, how
can one unwant unwanted
or unwonted need? Seamy
as unseemly. Naturally, 

Mal noticed. Observant
as a painted brick wall,
that one - but not one

to miss this.

"Yo babe!" he unremarkably
remarked. His eyes almost cross,
unsurreptitiously misaligned
the shortest distance of least resistance
between these windows to a dimlit
dimwit soul, and not just any 
but particularly two given
points. 

"It looks like your id's set off
the superego alarm again?" His face
and voice grew in sympathy, his eyes
met hers. "Autonomous or autonomic?"

She melted like a bar of platinum
sent next to a hunk of lead. "Suddenly,"
appalled as honesty, "both." 

"Hot damn!" he cackled, breaking
the spell and - would you believe it?
Rubbing together clasped hands! His own,
at least. "So what's the deal?" he grinned
like a diner regular with the whole all-day
menu laid out laminated, hinting about
specials. His eyes grew thoughtful, and
grew more, to accommodate 
actual ideas. "One-shot? Or,"
he did not pause, "Open a proper
trial series with an eye to buy? A
futures speculation, inclining
towards bullish?"

His whole manner said either. Decision 
all hers. "Mal, why don't we start 
with one of my classic not-a-date
coffee lunches?"

"A quiver of disappointed suspicion
ran down his lengthened member as
Mal took this in. He spoke cautiously yet"

"No! No no no no Mal." 

Mal froze. Self-consciousness caught
like light 
in a jar. 

"You cannot do the narration 
out loud." 

Mal brightened, abashed. Only he
could do that. "Bah!" he said - surprisingly
convincingly sheepish. "I'm still learning, but!
I do want to." He looked open. Naïve. Even 
gullible, but with a hint still of seagull
to it - raffishly, ravenously scavenging 
from atop graceful wing with plaintive
and insistent cry, high-pitched. 

She loved him like this, and flipped
inner polarity in an instant: fondly
hating such obviously needless
want. Pathetic! - she again diagnosed,
and correctly. He was beneath her, 

already, or 
good as.

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