She pressed her desire into my flesh. One night, dark room, two of us. Called me sweet names in the chill of the room, desperate for each other. We clung together like snakes in a pit. Wrapping ourselves around one another. I stroked her hair, it was as fine as carefully placed horsehair on a Victorian sofa. I rubbed her back, it felt as cold as the freezer on a summer day.
She said not a word to me, this lover of mine. Her voice was not active. The mannequin I brought home from work.
a classic example of not mixing work with pleasure...
well, it's a good thing ya didn't pull her head of like a barbie doll....
I think this piece has more to say.
Desire, passion, maybe the perfect illusion... perfect body, her voice active just in your mind, a sweet fantasy. I liked the mystery of this poem... that reveals the truth just at the end...
*Mary*
Reminds me of a poem by mairlyn manson. Before he was wearing a body suit but it was messed up none the less. You capture all of the creep factor without making this nearly as vulgar. Phenominal work sir!
First off I hope your really not having relations with a mannequin, heheheh, or a girl who is like a mannequin...because i'm sure you deserve better than a plastic person ^____^ then secondly on a more serious note...very interesting write!
On the splendid streets of Toronto walks a man. He observes, he writes, he lives; a never-ending chronicle of his mind flooding from his hands onto paper. more..