ODE TO A SCHMUCK

You KNEW I’d never been touched like that,

and what kind of a song choice afterwards –

Were you trying to be impressive??

Well CONGRATULATIONS, I would have been impressed by James Blunt

If he’d paid as much attention to my cunt.

Meanwhile I’m loving these b-list bond villain ultimatums:

I can

a) meet you for a drink

Or I can

b) fuck off?

………

??????

…….?????!!!!!??!!

ANYWAY

don’t fret –

You’ll always be my first

Schmuck.

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BEDDED, BLESSED AND BARED. Story of sorts, by Louis Hemmings

BEDDED, BLESSED AND BARED

 

 

Plump and pretty, crowned with surprise; beautiful your buttons, delightfully they rise, gravity un-defied, our bodies slightly battered, tired limbs entangled, hearts somewhat tattered. Fumbling blind in your hinge-opened thighs, slow foraging fingers, sleep-sensual eyes; purse-clasp open, pressed pussy-willow tip: rhythmic spasms whip your shapely hips.

My crooked warm wonder shows little indecision, bare bishop-head smooth, piston-like precision, sunken to hilt, my sword sinks to inner core, ecstatic neurons sing but tendons slightly sore. Silent bodies bump, deep in understanding, mutual submission, romantic that *commanding, long covenanted couple, deep our strong roots, bedded, blessed and bared, sweet shared fruit.

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‘This is a poem about being up your own arse’ .       A poem, a rant and an interview all in one. Code name- Thomas Aquinas.

My Cock and Balls Don’t Work

 

My Cock and Balls Don’t Work,

It’s not my fault I promise,

It was the rum and then the coke

That left a’ doubting Thomas

 

Never one for atavists,

My useless gland is cautious,

I want a cup of tea,

And she’s becoming nauseous

 

Eventually I raised white flag,

Without the craven peg,

I took my right hand home with me

And came on my right leg

 

As I stand in half light,

Wiping sperm off my own limb,

I wonder how to tell my friend,

How to break the news to him

 

Then I realise he won’t want to know,

Not through any fault of his own,

My semen-filled odyssey is too much

Yet I relay it groan by groan

 

Lyric by lyric I wear him down

Till he says he feels queasy,

I spare no minor detail,

Till everyone feels uneasy

 

I begin to wrap up my tale

I’ve all but finished mine,

When he starts to tell me of his night

With a more positive storyline

 

He talks and talks of his success,

He boasts with his sex crown,

I try to silence him again and again

But he starts to write it down

 

No one wants to hear of his

Thinly veiled conceit

About what he does with clitorides

Or what he does with feet

 

Someone at last pulls him over

They tell him to be quiet,

‘Please don’t carry on’ she said,

‘We’re beginning to get tired…

 

Your opinions are inconsequential,

You’ll never change the world,

Your poor attempts at modesty

All but make me hurl’

 

And to the ‘experts’ to whom this is

Intended most to irk,

Spare a thought for those of us

Whose cock and balls don’t work.

 

 

 

This is a poem about being up your own arse.

Some of us aren’t fortunate as others in the bedroom.

Many a time I have been at the crease without a cricket bat even though I’ve got my helmet on and everything.

People like to go into great deal about sexual experiences in my presence and it doesn’t fill me with confidence, nor anyone else.

The harsh reality is that I can tell that they’re not being honest as well.

 

FOOTNOTE.

Thomas Aquinas would like to point out that his cock and balls have worked several times. This poem draws from experience on a few, limited occasions.

 

 

 

 

INTERVIEW WITH AQUINAS AND WAS IT GOOD FOR YOU.

 

WIGFY- Do you think we shouldn’t go into a great deal about our sexual experiences?

 

T.A- No, no I think it’s important, but thinly-veiled bragathons aren’t important

 

WIGFY- And you’ve met a lot of these people, and where they mostly men or women?

 

T.A- Sometimes both, but mostly men.

 

WIGFY- Why do you think they do it?

 

T.A – Because they’re insecure

Like I said in the rant, I can tell when people are being dishonest about it.

And that’s when it crosses the line of importance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Special Poem. Message from a man to a boy. Chanderkiran Thakur.
Message from a man to a boy
He’s got so much love to give, but his aim is shit.
Now i’m covered and have to use the shower for a second time
He’s gotta be crazy living like he’s john wayne
The chase, the girl. It’s crazy. I’m not blaming you, It’s attractive, It’s hot.
Your body’s hard unlike your mind that is soft.
Molded by your desires, your will to fulfill the natural, the automatic.
You’re like clockwork and it’s a bore.
Playing hard to get yet our roles reverse the morning after.
Frankly i’m insulted. I expected a harder game.
Why you got that hand on my shoulder?
Worried you didn’t do well? Lock me down?
It’s like putty to me, I play with you. Create anything I want, as long as I don’t touch your manhood.
That chip on your shoulder tells me all the shameful things that make you hard.
While you’re controlled by it I use it like a tool. I am.
I know everything and have reached highs you were always afraid of.
Just because you’re on on top doesn’t mean you’re in control.
I’ve done the work, I let you fuck me, I call the shots.
I’m the one telling you to go harder.
I’ve mastered man, You’re a slave to your manhood.
A boy at best. So get on your knees and 
let the fire in your loins die,
I’ll climb to the peak
between your shoulders and swim in the clearest pool of your chest.
Watching eagles circle and clashing horns of stags.
Foraging for food and hunting for pleasure.
That’s how I’ll know your body,
Love doesn’t come close to it.
I’ve never met a man,
Just cock and endless balls.
 
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LOVE AND SEX IN AN ONLINE WORLD. ANONYMOUS.

Fucking [on] Facebook.

Tingles like warm champagne bubbles pour down my spine

Float along the skin of my stomach and my breasts

Craving my mouth.

When they reach they draw out a sigh of longing Then burst. Feeling your fingers tracing my flesh

But  your farfrom me, yet this fizzing Bubbling Over me is created by lustful words Typed feverishly by you in black on white, By memory of our bodies pressed

Our skin sweat

By waiting and waiting for that minute,We touch again, hair on end. This paradoxical block in my hand that comforts with

Your words, Your face, pulls me closer Yet mocks how far from you I am And pushes you further yet.

When times are more melancholy And the longing is not for flesh,Just for the wish of a kind word

Or the hope of reassurance that never Comes

It dissolves into read, and no reply. Read, and no reply. Saved nudes will be my virtual legacy: The girl who was so far away for so long For whom ‘the timing was wrong’ That you couldn’t stand my nearness Or the fear of me leaving.

Maybe. Maybe Absence does make the heart grow fonder, And maybe loving you was easier when we were side by side or Separated by sea and tide and maybe no wifi made loving me easier?

Because I was sex on a screen, Soon-to-be-real dream, A queen of wit who you couldn’t see scream And cry when she needed

But merely a witty reply or ‘I’m fine’ And you could believe it. Read and don’t reply. I’m fine

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