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

Submitted: April 16, 2016

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Submitted: April 16, 2016



I put on
the Bix Beiderbecke LP
on the record player;
Tilly lay on my bed,
hands behind her head,
head on the pillow,
gazing at me,
blues eyes liquidy.

What's this?
She said.

Jazz, Bix was one
of the great cornet-players
back in the 1920s,
I said,
lying beside her,
snuggling up to
her soft breasts.

But this is 1965,
haven't you anything
more modern?
Beatles, Rolling Stones,
the Kinks?

Another time maybe,
I said,
smelling her new perfume,
underarm hair still there.

She listened,
touching my pecker,
stirring him into life
like some hibernating snake.

Bix blew others on the LP away,
high notes, silvery against
their dross of muddle mess,
a clarinet, a trombone.

Tilly gave a sensual moan.
I touched her thigh,
moved my hand across
to feel her soft thatch,
lips met and kissed,
and sealed and heated up.

Some antiquated singer
sang up front,
Bix in the background
making jazz.

No more talk,
no words about this or that,
no more utterances
of life and such,
we loved sex too much.

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