deepundergroundpoetry.com
How I met your Grandmother, fucked her, and never called her again...
*(-Winner- of the 'No Holding Back' competition)
I met her on the bus today
She was carrying her groceries home from the corner store
Floral patterns, bottle-blue hair, thick glasses and melanoma
I imagined screwing her brains out but thought better of it
Maybe her vagina had already dried up anyway
Low flow, weakened heart, thoughts lost in reminiscing
She pulled her skirt up to scratch a mosquito bite
Rather nice knees despite the spider-veins
Orthopedic shoes, knee-high stockings, sickeningly pale skin
She rang the bell to tell the driver to stop
Well before she should to give herself the time to gather her belongings
Denture cream, tomato soup, something rich in fiber
The bus hits a bump and she slips as she is standing
I leap up quickly and catch her before she hits the floor
Sagging skin, soap and perfume, geriatric diaper
My grip is firm and I remind her of her youth
A chain of memories of being too demure to enjoy her human nature
Lost chances, over the hill glances, failing flesh is all that's left
But in my mind I made her that youthful adventurous slut
With a voluptuous form atop slender legs and sparkling playful eyes
Moistened labia, pulling hair, screaming parted thighs
The seat was made for fucking her into its phony leather creases
A pillow top romp beneath her poodle skirt and bobby socks
Flaming skin, sucking, biting, teaching things beyond her generation
When we both finally give way to exhaustion
She lays intertwined with my hands and arms and legs
Smiling, panting, and whispering in disbelief, "Oh Gosh!"
I help her to her feet and see her as she was
Naive and somehow stopped in time like a toy still in the package
Curvy, glistening, and glazed with my ejaculate
We gather her groceries and replace them in her bag
She says "Thank You," and in my mind I know for what
Fonder thoughts, a lighter conscience, a set of stains in the backseat of her Daddy's '55 Chevrolet Belaire
She hobbles on her way while the lives of all aboard this bus stop
As she slowly and carefully climbs down to the ground one step at a time
Doors close, we drive on, never to see or hear from each other again
I met her on the bus today
She was carrying her groceries home from the corner store
Floral patterns, bottle-blue hair, thick glasses and melanoma
I imagined screwing her brains out but thought better of it
Maybe her vagina had already dried up anyway
Low flow, weakened heart, thoughts lost in reminiscing
She pulled her skirt up to scratch a mosquito bite
Rather nice knees despite the spider-veins
Orthopedic shoes, knee-high stockings, sickeningly pale skin
She rang the bell to tell the driver to stop
Well before she should to give herself the time to gather her belongings
Denture cream, tomato soup, something rich in fiber
The bus hits a bump and she slips as she is standing
I leap up quickly and catch her before she hits the floor
Sagging skin, soap and perfume, geriatric diaper
My grip is firm and I remind her of her youth
A chain of memories of being too demure to enjoy her human nature
Lost chances, over the hill glances, failing flesh is all that's left
But in my mind I made her that youthful adventurous slut
With a voluptuous form atop slender legs and sparkling playful eyes
Moistened labia, pulling hair, screaming parted thighs
The seat was made for fucking her into its phony leather creases
A pillow top romp beneath her poodle skirt and bobby socks
Flaming skin, sucking, biting, teaching things beyond her generation
When we both finally give way to exhaustion
She lays intertwined with my hands and arms and legs
Smiling, panting, and whispering in disbelief, "Oh Gosh!"
I help her to her feet and see her as she was
Naive and somehow stopped in time like a toy still in the package
Curvy, glistening, and glazed with my ejaculate
We gather her groceries and replace them in her bag
She says "Thank You," and in my mind I know for what
Fonder thoughts, a lighter conscience, a set of stains in the backseat of her Daddy's '55 Chevrolet Belaire
She hobbles on her way while the lives of all aboard this bus stop
As she slowly and carefully climbs down to the ground one step at a time
Doors close, we drive on, never to see or hear from each other again
Published 21st Sep 2010
| Edited 28th May 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 10
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comments 11
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The author encourages honest critique.
Anonymous
21st Sep 2010 3:01pm
When I started reading this poem, I didn't know that it would actually be about fucking someone's grandmother! In keeping with Mylum's idea, I assumed that the content would be unrelated to the title. Nevertheless, this is an interesting piece (if also foul beyond comprehension!) with a vivid character sketch of the old woman, and some effective images. The narrator struck me as somewhat of a psychopath, but that could just be me, me and my strange interpretations. A great conveyance of gentrophilia!
21st Sep 2010 4:50pm
I said in the forum that it DID NOT turn out the way I had originally intended or wanted it to go. Hahah. It just sort of took on a life of its own as I was writing it.
wow. i can't believe you really did a write *for* the title! well done and serious points for the way you put it together. i can actually see the compassionate side of this and it's almost sweet, as odd as it is at face value. such an original subject....*chm* but um, stay away from my grandma. ;]
21st Sep 2010 4:53pm
Yeah it was meant to be sweet, my outreach to those who were so constricted in their beliefs that they did not experience what it is to let go and just enjoy that part of being human. It was a daydream, a musing, of what the narrator considered compassion. Thanks for seeing that.
2nd Jan 2011 4:56pm
I was once told that guys have the weirdest and sometimes most disgusting sexual thoughts, that we woman would not want to know about! You having sex with my grandmother is one of them. Being 37, I can enjoy this piece as far as a younger man approaching me. Although no blue hair the youthfulness can disturbingly take you away. Thank you and this made me feel a lot of different emotions starting with the title. Ha!
6th Jan 2011 5:16pm
I hope that means you liked it. The intention was a rumination on the part of the narrator of what this decaying form would have been/felt like in her youth, years away in her past from her current state. I have always had the fantasy of bedding one of the pin-up ladies from the 50s era and this was a bit of indulgence toward that idea. Also, I'm 34 so 37 isn't a stretch at all. ;)
Anonymous
8th Jan 2011 1:17am
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Anonymous
8th Jan 2011 1:20am
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26th Jun 2011 6:56am
Anonymous
26th Jun 2011 9:54am
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20th Jul 2016 8:19am
The interweaving of perceived ideas about the older generation and in this case elderly women, i.e. your description of her and then the 'imaginary event' where you have been able to tap into her youth where she enjoyed, albeit, possibly somewhat restrained sex has been well done...
And I commend you for following the path your writing directed...there is nothing better than allowing 'whatever it is' to guide you at these times... :-)
And I commend you for following the path your writing directed...there is nothing better than allowing 'whatever it is' to guide you at these times... :-)
