No More Poems About Sex

Standard
No more poems about sex
because it’s been so damn long.
 
I practically forget
what it even feels like.
 
Still, I trudge wearily at half mast
through each lonesome day,
haunted by specters
of anatomy and copulation.
 
This feeling –
tantamount to starvation!
 
What I wouldn’t give
for the feeling of a woman’s bare flesh
against my own, the feeling of breasts
and lips (both the above and the below),
of thighs and hips. And oh!
 
to gaze into her eyes
as she joyously howls
from the depths of orgasm!
 
Damn it, this is torture! to be
so bereft of fuck.
 
Such wretched luck!
 
And even worse – the thought
that somewhere, there’s some asshole
fucking some woman
whom he gives ZERO shits about.
 
Doesn’t care if she comes,
nor wants to stick around 
and share a cigarette with her,
hold her close, talk with her
about beautiful things, and read her
poetry (She’d get all of that will me).
 
No, he’s just in it for him.
His every motion and thrust
has no meaning for her,
and for him, she’s just a body
in which to flex his muscle.
 
So, he pays no heed
to her desolate looks.
And he doesn’t listen
when she says afterward
 
“So that’s it?”
 
Now, if she were with me
instead of that twat, she would know –
 
for an hour or few –
 
what it is to be royalty.
 
I can offer so much more
than missionary, and I’m all for kisses,
wet and intense. To be able
to caress every inch of her is –
straight up – a privilege.
 
And she had better believe
that I have the most gifted of tongues.
Hell, I can induce a religious experience.
 
10 minutes is all I need,
 
and she’ll see Shiva or Christ
or for fuck’s sake Zeus if that’s
what she really wants.
 
But no. I’m here alone
in this quiet room
with these maddening
fantasies and lusts.
 
Meanwhile, somewhere,
there’s some asshole buttoning
his shirt, barrel-assing out
of her room to go back to his own,
and brag to his buddies
about this “fine bitch” he just laid,
 
and she’s still in bed,
huddled in a nest
of disappointment, cursing
herself for the mistake
she just made.
 
-r. miller
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One thought on “No More Poems About Sex

  1. “Meanwhile, somewhere,

    there’s some asshole buttoning

    his shirt, barrel-assing out

    of her room to go back to his own,

    and brag to his buddies”

    OH MY GOD

    hahaha

    this is amazing!

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