Seduction without Reduction

So, you think you want a ‘stocking and suspenders’ kind of girl?

I’ll give you a twirl and rock your world,

Lick my lips slowly – no not for that,

I’m warming up for intellectual combat –

You better be packing some long, hot words –

In this case size really does matter,

I need to know that you’ve got the patter

Those pastiches of lust are just absurd –

Ugly bits of nylon , compared to the word –

Words are more seductive,

Words are less reductive

Rolling smoothly off the tongue,

A delight to be heard.

 

Ideas can wriggle behind feathers and fans,

Titillating – little by little -things to expand

Your mind,

A burlesque of a different kind,

A burlesque where you might just find

Yourself craving more of the mysteries,

The little-known histories

Coyly revealed from behind the feather –

You’ll feel ill at ease,

Confused by the tease,

At the end of your tether…

At a loss for why it’s more engrossing,

Than those cheap bits of clothing

But you’ll never

Forget this psychological striptease.

All words and images are the original work of the writer and may not be reproduced without their permission.

bad baboushka

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Mourning Wood

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Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,

He scans the bereaved for available gashes,

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

Grief itself inflames his lust,

Black is such a slimming colour –

How’s your father? (And your mother?)

Tears lend such a delicate hue,

(Come now, this day’s about you)

‘She’s laid on the wake and made me a sandwich,

Surely that’s licence to make her my bitch?’

The pain on her face lends a peculiar grace,

Silent permission to give an embrace.

Was he very close to the deceased?

Not at all – just there to get her on her knees.

(Come, now – don’t play hard to get,

He knows a way that’ll make you forget)

Oh, it’s sad that you’ve lost your spouse

But honestly speaking, aren’t you a little aroused?

He’s there to fill the hole that’s been left,

To observe the ritual and her breasts –

They’ve laid her husband to rest in his plot, Now he’s straining to rest in that slot.

Death becomes her, it has to be said, He’s not resting ’til he gets her to bed,

He’s intoxicated by the scent of death in the air,

As he gently strokes her face and her hair,

(There, now – doesn’t that feel nice?)

He’s determined to please her once if not twice,

‘Don’t worry about what they may say,

Your husband has gone and is in his grave’

She leans in to him and it feels so good

As he leans into her

With his mourning wood.

halloweengravesbest

 

Words and images (c) of the original artist 2015 and may not be reproduced without permission