Two-hundred and Eleven: Automatic

He fucks her
like it’s 2002, amidst
the rolling papers,
the stale homemade wine,
the naked pillow cases.

Her mouth is hot and dirty,
exhaling well-rehearsed
salty nothings.
but no matter.
She is a gas pump gasping;
no strike here.
Actually, au contraire.

He strokes her hair while he
fucks her, while her fingers
attack his back like firecrackers.

When he comes she screws
her eyes tight
and buries herself under the weight

of him. Kiss, kiss but she
pushes him off and
on the edge of the bed.
She is stiff.
Her eyes are erect.

He folds himself
the small, white body and
to hold her.

But with a pat on the head
and a condom-wrapped
goodnight, he realises
that he never had her

because there isn’t much to give.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

6 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Eleven: Automatic”

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