pennies towards tantric

a little over two weeks away
from the last would be bride
and I was far from hungry;
we fucked like love wouldn't implode
if we came at it harder
and from all the angles

but it did collapse, despite met appetite;
in a vacuum of dense passion

in this last half-a-month, it seems like
I've never gotten laid; yet, the memory
of every sexual encounter that anybody
has ever had, is competing for my focus

I must have fallen in love
and face fucked fear into every female
that happens to cross the stage
of the play that I must write in my mind
to arouse what light is left
from my universe's latest crunch.


the girl at the bookstore:
   
   -bohemian, artsy type.
   -possibly too young,
    probably too easy.

She got my attention the first time
but I let her pass in front of me
a few more; looking for whatever book
it was, that she kept remembering
was on the shelf in front of me.

Usually she would get the stare
of the overly confident has been;
thinking to myself
that I am nothing but trouble
while knowing that she thinks she sees
something different; she senses sorrow
and beauty in me, I'm just misunderstood.

But I didn't look into her in that way;
I smiled as soft as I could muster
and remembered a decade ago
when I was first drunk on a young lady.
Her wine was the silk thread of attraction;
as sensual as the surety of her ores pull,
and I hammered hilts on her anvil
while she adorned the swords sharpness
in an exited air that sheaths ambition.

I was worth her, and am not yet back
to that value, so the bookstore's girls ass
was respectively covered in my imagination;
leaving it to the wealth, when found, of
that quiet guy seated in the back
with his eyes beginning to peer
over the ridge of his book.


single mom on the walk home:

   -my age.
   -single, or can keep a secret.
   -beat down by life, but fuckable.

Never needed much in common,
drinking was always enough language
when the communication is fucking.

She noticed me because I was wearing
a flat brimmed cap, and my beard
was freshly trimmed. I wouldn't need
to tell her that this image she sees
is me only a week out of any few years.

I would have met her and made her think
that I found her beautiful, more precious
than when her heart throb knocked her up
in high school. I would have remembered
her name. She would've let me put my cock
into her asshole, if I would have kissed her
three times, behind her ears.

I am not drinking, and
would rather jerk off


Maria:

   -few years older,
    flirting with forty.
   -bit thick, but sturdy,
    with a couple curves
    that fight back
    being ignored.

She was most likely not named Maria,
but was probably Mexican, and definitely
did not have a red rose. I saw her towards
the end of my day, when the disciplinarian
is asleep. She was ordering coffee; while
I was sitting at a table, noodling
in my notebook. She was short and round
but where the mounds of her meet, there is
a few years left of firm enough, for a cock
to die in. I was swept in the seat of her smile
and in the confidence of a satisfied woman.
I assumed that she wanted to see the same in me
and would allow those lips to show me how.

If in that moment she glanced in the direction
of the restroom, I wouldn't have needed
any gesture, I would have followed her in,
fumbled to pull her tits out over top
of her shirt, and would have felt the cradle
of her breasts beneath my cock as she guided
it into her mouth. Seated there on the toilet,
she would pull me closer; eye level with my waist
and in no mood to negotiate.

She would have cupped both of my testicles
with one hand, while stowing away the length
of my cock in skilled movements, mouthing
a mantra to release