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MIRYAM AND MADRID.

Poetry By: dadio
Poetry



A boy and girl in Madrid in 1970


Submitted:Dec 2, 2013    Reads: 1    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Miryam meets you at the bar

of the base camp in Madrid.

She has an orange juice

and cereals

and a coffee chaser.

Did you sleep o.k?

you ask, sitting beside her,

with a coffee

and toast and cigarette.

Sure,

she says,

afterwards.

Her eyes light up

like lights

on a pinball machine

when it's played well.

You? she asks,

you sleep all right?

Sure, but the ex-army guy

wasn't too pleased,

me getting back in the tent

at that hour,

you say.

Fuck him,

she says.

No thanks,

you reply.

She sips the juice,

her lips hold the glass

as she drinks,

her mouth is fish-like

as she swallows.

You talk about

the ex-army guy's moans

about his mother's boyfriend,

how they don't

get along(he

and the boyfriend),

and how he feels

left out and how

he got thrown out

the army because

he was suicidal.

She sips,

and you watched

her eyes feasting on you

as they did

the night before,

and you recall her

undressing in

the small space

of her tent,

the girl she shared with

off fucking some guy

she'd met on the coach,

the tall guy

with an Australian accent.

You watched her,

as you disrobed yourself,

the space throwing

you together,

each touching each,

kissing and undressing

and kissing.

He still feel suicidal?

she asks.

Guess so,

you say,

tried to talk him

through it all,

laying there

in my sleeping bag,

half asleep,

listening

and talking to him,

eyes closing,

and his voice

becoming a drone.

Anyway,

he seemed happier after,

snoring not long after,

as I was laying there

thinking of you.

She eats the cereal,

talks about the girl

coming back

just after you left,

well fucked

and happy,

glassy eyed,

giggling

and stinking of booze.

You sip the coffee,

take in her small tits,

pressing against

her coloured top,

flowers and balloons,

patterns, eye catching.

She begs a smoke

from your packet

and you nod,

and she takes one out

and lights up

from the red

plastic lighter,

the cigarette,

held between her lips,

kissable lips,

lickable.

Yes, it had been

a good night,

you and she

and someone

strumming a guitar

from the bar,

nearby,

loudly singing,

not far.





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