by Steven M. Grant
Cutting
A razor’s edge glides
through dermis
with a surgeon’s
disconnected precision.
Crimson tattooed
parallel lines
concealed for now
on the inner thigh.
Ejaculated blood spatters;
a decorative memento
for the bathroom floor.
Endorphins engage,
serotonin orgasms,
and the impulse wanes
while platelets seek
companionship.
Tonight she will sleep,
tomorrow’s hungry voice
but a whisper that will grow
in the darkness.
Tryst
"I was hoping I would see you again",
the words danced on my ear,
her breath and breasts warm against me,
"so I didn't wear panties".
Outwardly unaffected,
I leaned in to take the fragrance
of her hair as it floated past my nose.
My lips pressed against her ear,
I made it known, I was pleased as well.
Her hand fell to my knee
and slid deliberately north.
“So it would seem”, she said
with a firm and knowing grasp.
The bar was crowded when I entered,
but as she slid her lithe frame
between the bar and my stool,
everything peripheral faded from focus.
“You ran away last time before I finished with you”
My explanations quickly rebuffed,
she kissed me.
My James Bond countenance began to crack.
“Now that wasn’t so hard was it?”
she giggled, and came back for seconds.
She pulled me closer
positioning my hands on her waist.
I know there was loud music playing
but all I could hear was the sound of her voice as she said
“do you know how wet you’re making me?”
With a deft fluid motion, she slid my hand down
and back up under the hem of her skirt,
removing any thought
that she was prone to exaggeration.
I caught my breath,
regained my composure,
looked past her coolly, and made it known
I was ready to close out my tab.
Cutting
A razor’s edge glides
through dermis
with a surgeon’s
disconnected precision.
Crimson tattooed
parallel lines
concealed for now
on the inner thigh.
Ejaculated blood spatters;
a decorative memento
for the bathroom floor.
Endorphins engage,
serotonin orgasms,
and the impulse wanes
while platelets seek
companionship.
Tonight she will sleep,
tomorrow’s hungry voice
but a whisper that will grow
in the darkness.
Tryst
"I was hoping I would see you again",
the words danced on my ear,
her breath and breasts warm against me,
"so I didn't wear panties".
Outwardly unaffected,
I leaned in to take the fragrance
of her hair as it floated past my nose.
My lips pressed against her ear,
I made it known, I was pleased as well.
Her hand fell to my knee
and slid deliberately north.
“So it would seem”, she said
with a firm and knowing grasp.
The bar was crowded when I entered,
but as she slid her lithe frame
between the bar and my stool,
everything peripheral faded from focus.
“You ran away last time before I finished with you”
My explanations quickly rebuffed,
she kissed me.
My James Bond countenance began to crack.
“Now that wasn’t so hard was it?”
she giggled, and came back for seconds.
She pulled me closer
positioning my hands on her waist.
I know there was loud music playing
but all I could hear was the sound of her voice as she said
“do you know how wet you’re making me?”
With a deft fluid motion, she slid my hand down
and back up under the hem of her skirt,
removing any thought
that she was prone to exaggeration.
I caught my breath,
regained my composure,
looked past her coolly, and made it known
I was ready to close out my tab.
Steven Marty Grant drinks too much and has squandered most of his life chasing loose women. He currently resides in the borough of Manhattan and makes money doing things not spoken of in polite company. His poems have appeared in print publications like The Writer, The Ampersand (&) Review, The Melancholy Dane, Spring Harvest and The Drama & English Journal. When not surfing internet porn he blogs at Urbanality and is the poetry editor at Notes & Grace Notes This week he noticed that his feet have grown from a 12 to a 12.5 and he is hoping my penis will follow suit.
I've always admired your poetic stylings Steve ever since the days of TIBU. You are one hell of a wordsmith Steve and its always a pleasure to read your stuff.
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