strumpet

by celeste

Posted to Poetry on 2003-06-02 13:48:00

Oreata Trombone tooted her own horn well
she’d toot your horn even better
her berried lips found no greater comfort
than a young man’s
yearning appendage
on a surly hot night
just south of st. francisville
the heat never stifled
her diaphanous desire
the ghost of Cerces
dabbling delicately
with aligned motions
of the last millenium
blew a faint cool breeze
at her svelte backside
dimpled buttocks slightly trembling
Oreata was connected
every soceress knew
her penetrating aura well
she was past the boundaries
of any o’clock
and could transfix the most hardened
voyager
every lover stared hard at her
when finished
awe and startled disbelief
made their grim face calm
Miss Trombone was an original
a delightful flutter of sumptuous
tarlet
smooth and creamy
like a homemade cannoli

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