Is this a poem or flash fiction? I don’t even know. I hope you enjoy this fun exercise in bad language and other steamy things. And remember, any writing is good compared to no writing at all, right…? Thanks for stopping by. 🙂
Beneath the gallantry and fuckery,
as fun as she
(and she hopes he)
finds it,
it seems there should have been something else by now.
A slow dig in search of something palpable and wonderful,
electrical and whatever other adjective to describe the build up she feels when he
touches, kisses, works her legs open.
Boundless and burning, but oh is she misty!
So the tune of fuck you, what the fuck are we doing, and are we still fucking other people?
is overridden by the steady skipping track of a whisper to a dancing ear,
fuck me,
until neither have anymore fucks to give. They’re spent and everyone knows it.
And where were we?
The dig, that grueling chore of getting beneath the Earth’s crust, not nearly as attractive in the day time.
The slight unfurled mouth is now a gaping canal that sucks him in but the sun is up again and he wants out of this unholy rebirthing.
The sun is up and the beast run off.
But wait, what happened to the gallantry and fuckery?
What of those steamy windows of his old mustang where the girl’s head appears, disappears, then reappears like some magic trick that would get an illusionist fired?
His best trick is making the audience believe what he tells them,
that there is wonder and electricity and more beneath the fuckery.
But, what a thing it is to find the Earth is hollow.
Drunk Off Rhetoric 