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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic



Quttocks slept alone. From choice,
Not from lack of opportunity, or any
Chance to place a hand on some dame’s
Tits or slender buttocks. He sits up in bed.
Morning has come. The window lets in
Light of day and dawn. Some time since
He’d woke up alone; some time since he’d
Not seen some dame sleeping it off or lying
There waiting to perform sexually once again.
He stretches his arms out like one crucified.
He thinks of the young girl he’d turned down
The night before. Not a bad looker: had tits
And all, face quite pretty, slim, not too tall,
But Christ could she talk. Yak yak yak all
The evening in the movies, the cafe, the bar.
She talked too much. He can imagine her
Beside him now, giving it all that, he muses,
Making mouth movements with his hand.
He looks at his bed empty. The pillow beside
Him untouched, no indentation. He recalls
The Danish dame who lay there once, her
Blue eyes searching him, her blonde hair
Spread on the pillow, her lips moving, her
Tongue protruding, licking lips, sexually.
None is there now. No hair, eyes, tits or
Buttocks to adore for young Mr Quttocks.

Submitted: June 04, 2011

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