Midnight
In a million hotel rooms,
Sandwiched between
The championship poker
Late films
And shopping channels
A topless woman
Grinds her clitoris
And moans ecstatically:
A chat-line number.
The mothballed penis
Is disinterred,
Shaken out
Briefly erected
And exhausted
In time for
The second half.
A contest entry
- let's talk about sex, baby.. by Cat.
450 points, ended April 5, 2007, 13 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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i would have to wonder if she is ever really topless- or just sitting in the kitchen eating pizza and drinking a diet coke- I enjoyed this piece and the raunchy feel of it.. your final stanza is quite strong.
thanks for entering
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Quite. But this is just the specialisation of the industrialisation of sex. It's like an assembly line where one person fits the carburettor and another adds the doors. The lady in the movie studio does the tits and the one eating pizza in the kitchen does the voice. All seamlessly integrated in the fevered imagination of the lonely commercial traveller.
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You are forgetting that you are a voluptous (hopefully) old french tart darling...................... xx chills xx
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Pardon Madame?
You have better information than I! My comments on this poem are purely accademic. I have, of course, no direct knowledge or information with regard to the events of the poem or, indeed, to the comment I made. -
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Aw heck - my mistake - you just had the faintest look of someone else there for a moment. So sorry.... xx
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This was so delightfully jaded in tone. Have le clap!! x clips x
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