Little blue love-toy you sit on a bed-side table and await your dream.

Slid in and out of that cunt so wet
a replacement for the stiffness a partner can't get
or inserted in conjunction with a probing elsewhere
that little starfish devoid of hair?

One in front one in back
one in slit one in crack.

Is it the fullness you quench or the plastic desire
when they cum do they slide you higher and higher
so far inside, almost out of sight
are you replaced by one bigger, your fit not quite right?
Do you and your handler put on a show
for her one and only, or for those in the know?
Is it batteries that drive you or the deftness of hand?
Do you take her so high as you're twisted round and round?
In and out of that tunnel so wet, so warm
do they take the stickiness on their tongues?
Do they lick you clean, have a taste for more?
Do you make them feel dirty, do they feel like whores?
Are you a substitute or additive for games in the bed?
Are you becoming addictive: "Use rubber instead"?

Though your rigidity never goes off and the credit is all yours
the feel of that cunt with it's lips engorged
with blood and pouting, and shouting to be "Fucked"
of the velvet insert you'll never know the touch
for no mind of your own, just an object at hand
no hair, no shaft, no foreskin, no glans.
Yet I see you sitting there upright and alone
Does your handler sleep sometimes with her hand on her throne?
Does she flood from the deluge of the storm held within?
The dreams of fantasies, does sex feel like sin?
Or is the sin the emotion, the feelings she keeps?
For the fear of a change, for the loss of nothing she weeps.







I'd like to take her bra off right here in front of the customers
in the middle of their Thai beef-salad and their Arena barramundi
with a mouthful of crusty garlic bread
my facial-hair adorned with cappuccino froth

And I'd like to put it over my head like a pair of ear-muffs
to keep my ears warm even though they burn constantly from the hot expulsions of the always
bored drama-queens.
But I'd have to have her tits still inside the cups
her 34d pear-shaped, ski-jump tits
with their rock-hard nipples
and their sundae-fudge ability to water my mouth.

But she'd look manly without any tits
and I'd look stupid glued face-first to her cleavage.







The night's so cold the air almost smokes with my breath.

I walk

The eyes travel back and forth, back and forth
up and down, up and down.

And there's a Bum on the footpath standing stunned like a fish pulled from the sea to an isolated breath
gripped about the gills by an unfriendly hand
a 4/0 hook in it's sweet lips
bait swallowed to it's gut.
And the eyes of the angler are hidden below the brim of a cap sponsoring XXXX or some other approximation of a beer.
And the fish can sense it's own death as the breath reeking of the best part of a six-pack comes in close for inspection.

And this Bum's so intent that he doesn't notice me
he's got his hand in his fly-hole
the zipper's undone
and he's grabbing at himself as if he's lost something.
His cock maybe?
A pair of balls that used to hang below in a skin sac all their own?

And I walked straight passed and sat down to order a dinner of pasta

And I wonder now "Did he find what he was looking for"?
because I'm no longer hungry.








Eyes go sore from a lack of tears
love that can't be found so early on a Sunday afternoon
buried deep already in a malted grave
smoke wafting apologies from between lips, off a tongue so glib and lazy.

"Please" she says
"Between me"

And her Paris launches from memories to light a hope that it may still be there this time whenever
and I might see for myself.