deepundergroundpoetry.com
15 times over
a kiss on the cheek,
and an embrace.
a casual motion for this woman,
a greeting met by all, but I of course
believe I am somehow different.
Her eyes blaze my own, but I lack reciprocation
I am not interested yet, I’ve had only but one drink,
So my response is simple when she asks me to fuck her
“I’m not drunk enough yet.”
but the drink passes on, through my body, providing me with a pleasant warmth
a warmth a woman could provide, but I prefer from grog.
we venture, to higher plains, in which the view may complete my eyes, but the drink
has toppled my will.
Sure, I seal with a kiss. With refrain still present, as our tongues dance, within one another and her constant question:
“Why wont you fuck me?”
“No, virginity is an important thing to a man like me.” a say, still a boy
i rant, about romantics, slurring at the very least, and my speech is compelling. Yet another No.
Until she asks to move, somewhere free from view. Free from the blonde and the Irishman that judge our dance,
No. I still state to the full leap.
I am intrigued by the notion, of lips and tongues, still a virgin from the neck down,
my resistance to more has led her hair dropped to my crotch, tasselled and black, and my drunken self still clung to her breasts.
Her hunger begs to move to a point ever more secluded, and all there is to cover us are swamped trees.
In an act of vanity, I remove my own shirt, a decision shadowed by the tragedy to follow.
She who has successfully dragged my trousers down, has mounted me.
Unexpectedly.
She groans in the attempt to situate, without any of my help,
I believe it is too late,
the muttering of “No” 15 times over is ineffective.
I am still a boy, as it is not too late, but she resituates, and my member and mind have come to terms,
the tragedy is to be accepted, consent in a lack of resistance some may say.
But for the loss of a virgins’ soul, in the heart of a romantic, that is a tragedy for us all.
and an embrace.
a casual motion for this woman,
a greeting met by all, but I of course
believe I am somehow different.
Her eyes blaze my own, but I lack reciprocation
I am not interested yet, I’ve had only but one drink,
So my response is simple when she asks me to fuck her
“I’m not drunk enough yet.”
but the drink passes on, through my body, providing me with a pleasant warmth
a warmth a woman could provide, but I prefer from grog.
we venture, to higher plains, in which the view may complete my eyes, but the drink
has toppled my will.
Sure, I seal with a kiss. With refrain still present, as our tongues dance, within one another and her constant question:
“Why wont you fuck me?”
“No, virginity is an important thing to a man like me.” a say, still a boy
i rant, about romantics, slurring at the very least, and my speech is compelling. Yet another No.
Until she asks to move, somewhere free from view. Free from the blonde and the Irishman that judge our dance,
No. I still state to the full leap.
I am intrigued by the notion, of lips and tongues, still a virgin from the neck down,
my resistance to more has led her hair dropped to my crotch, tasselled and black, and my drunken self still clung to her breasts.
Her hunger begs to move to a point ever more secluded, and all there is to cover us are swamped trees.
In an act of vanity, I remove my own shirt, a decision shadowed by the tragedy to follow.
She who has successfully dragged my trousers down, has mounted me.
Unexpectedly.
She groans in the attempt to situate, without any of my help,
I believe it is too late,
the muttering of “No” 15 times over is ineffective.
I am still a boy, as it is not too late, but she resituates, and my member and mind have come to terms,
the tragedy is to be accepted, consent in a lack of resistance some may say.
But for the loss of a virgins’ soul, in the heart of a romantic, that is a tragedy for us all.
Published 11th Feb 2018
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11th Feb 2018 4:52am
