They don’t make me salivate,
not those television titties
as round as teacups
magnified to perverts’ dreams
hard as over-inflated volleyballs
taut as canvas sails in high winds.
Pushed up, built up tyrants
never worth a touch but lodged
in every face like a hood
used in water-boarding.
Media goddess, you can’t torture me
with that partially-hydrogenated image.
I want a real feast of tear-dropped flesh,
ones to hold and massage through fingers
ones pliable, mysteriously soft;
ones to move in the movement of the act,
to fill a mouth from hard to soft palate
to enjoy with tongue, lips and teeth
to take me from this moment to my first.
You’re not an image; you have substance
beyond a sequence of flickering molecules.
You glow like firelight against granite;
in deep night, you’re meant to be painted
in white and rust on cave walls.
This poem first appeared in our the heat-packin, heart-throbbin debut issue.
PM Mooney has been writing poems most of his life but was recently reborn, thanks to a woman. He is a poet, a distance runner, an English sheepdog owner, a positive force, and a college professor. His literary interests include Raymond Queneau, Marcel Proust, and Henry Miller. He is madly in love with a woman who lives a continent away. She has convinced him that time and distance are illusions.