Dousing the Blouse
By birksy
Listen, on the line, through the wind it sings soliloquy’s, as lovely as the blossom that swims on liquid left in shallows. I know they must be mine, my palms are wet with sweat, the light’s not faded yet, there’s a chance I might be seen. The wind that licks my neck, runs down the cracks and in-between, it makes the whole thing tick, while my watch no longer works. My mouth has now run dry, and my sight has tunnelled, so all I see has narrowed, to that single shape of cloth I must borrow. Decent men must hide in vain, within their house safe from the drizzling rain, that I embrace, taste, before I make my greasy moves. And now, I shout, dance mad, throwing arms about, I have the blouse, I have it in my hands, and I have the power, I have it. Away I creep, watching steps, tensing hands grip with white, the smell of her blouse in my nose, I will use it well. Written November 2nd, 1999 © on Jul 17 2001 06:22 AM PST, Simon Birks 0 • 14 • 1
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"Listen, on the line, through the wind..."