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Posted on May 7, 2011 at 3:10 AM

He hates it the week you’re on the rag

As he terms it, the big drag,

Depressing deprivation, but you hate it

For deeper reasons that he can feel,


Another month where your seed’s

Unblessed with life or babe.

You aren’t ready yet, he claims,

Running a finger down your spine,


Hoping to turn you on,

Wanting to romp out of season,

Best wait until the promotion

And the money’s upfront,


And besides there’s plenty time

For that kind of thing,

Baby cries, disturbed nights,

Feeding, changing, shit


And puke and endless piss.

He sneaks in for a full frontal kiss.

But you sense the wanting even more.

Feel the phantom tugging at your dugs,


Sense a baby in your arms, the soft

And warm and tiny feeling fingers

Along your arm and feeble breasts.

You sense his finger push between


Your thighs and touch the rag.

He moves away and mutters:

Some men go to whores to fuck

When their sex shop is shut


And the rag shutter’s up.

His words are muffled

In the waves of disappointment

Full flowing over you


In the dark seas of night,

And he hoping against hope

That even now you might.



Categories: Terry Collett, Poetry & Lyric

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