She – in the pink phosphorescence
of her combustible world –
sinks into opium transcendence,
spread across the lush hotel bed,
silver-sequined spandex skirt
pushed high up on her hips,
legs open to receive her daily bread.

He – martini in hand,
cigar between lip-stick smeared lips
bruised by kisses,
swollen with need,
bitten by his own teeth
in anticipation of heaven.

She – feathers, glossy yellow
sashaying across tiny hairs
standing like soldiers
on her flesh—
so awake, so aware, so resolved
to what will touch her muscled thigh,
glory in the smoothness there
and there.

He – drifts and slips and slides
with an air of indifference.
But he is not.
He would choose no other room,
no other view.
Shades of complacency
mingle with indecency.
And it is.
This is why he stays,
why he’s here,
drowning
in the scent of sex
in this cotton candy room
where he chooses his vice
and she sells her wares
to this middle-aged businessman
in a bad suit and thick cologne
trying to pretend he’s slick
like vasoline.

What would his wife say if she saw them
together up against the wall,
her face pressed into the cheap paint,
and heard the growl of satisfaction
in his throat
because he finds escape
in this
and not in her cunt.
Because that’s not enough.

He must have more,
something hidden between thighs,
pulsing with the dignity of a sword.

He buries his face between shoulder blades
and sighs the sigh that says
Here I can be myself.

Day 2 Topic: “B” – Betrayal

4 Replies to “Vasoline”

  1. Oh wow. This is amazing. There was so much of everything packed into this poem and you totally took me with you in so many ways. Brilliant 😊

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

CommentLuv badge

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Are you 18 or older? This website contains material that is not suitable for readers under the age of 18. Please verify your age to view the content, or click "Exit" to leave.
%d bloggers like this: