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Poetry Uncategorized

BLOWBANG PYTHIA

She kneels in deck shoes and nothing else

unless you count tattoos.

The acolytes from off-camera appear.

Surround her, as she sets to work

maintaining all six erect.

She deepthroats one after the other,

after the other, after again the one,

after another other, and so on,

in accelerating succession.

Till the choir takes the wheel,

soloing together –

backflipped beetle,

six legs pumping,

while she fingers herself till the boys climax,

and goo clots with a horror of ecstasy

her skull.

                 The lingams withdraw, spent,

while she gallops nowhere in a hell

of a hurry, yet on the knees,

riding barelip her fingertip steed,

blind with stud pollen, licking dollops,

camera dollying in to worship

each grinning, bitter gulp.

Willie Smith

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