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.

Filed under: Poetry

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