So, there's this poetry meme
When you see this, comment with a poem you love or post one in your own journal to encourage the proliferation of random poetry through your flist.
I really like poetry. But for some reason, for this journal... A while back, when we were still playing the mirror RP game, I had Mirror!McCoy write a poem. And now I feel like posting it again.
Sometimes I really miss that game. *grin*
Do I need to warn for mirror universe love poetry? I don't even know anymore.
***
"Write me a poem," she said - my fucking wife,
leaning on the kitchen counter like a Saturday afternoon.
But it was Tuesday and there was blood -
and dirt, there was always dirt in those days -
under my nails from working goddamn hard for her.
Those were still the days of her warm cunt every morning,
my profanity whispered to the ribs under the weight
of her left breast like a goddamned prayer.
Those were the better days and I tried to find rhymes
Between my teeth just for her mouth, her lips, her tongue.
But there ain't no escape from meter gone off-balance
and an ambitious woman climbing above your head.
"Write me a poem," she said - my fucking wife,
and I tried it just for her hair wrapped up in my fingers
as she knelt on the tile like she was worshipping -
Not just my cock but the way things were between us,
ripe and drunk and soaked in purple dye like her lacy things,
frivolous bits I could peel off her like skin falling from its fruit.
She got her poem, verses strung out of me like a junkie
and I wonder if she kept it - hope she has it like preserves
to spread on thick slices of bread on rare cold Georgia mornings.
I really like poetry. But for some reason, for this journal... A while back, when we were still playing the mirror RP game, I had Mirror!McCoy write a poem. And now I feel like posting it again.
Sometimes I really miss that game. *grin*
Do I need to warn for mirror universe love poetry? I don't even know anymore.
***
"Write me a poem," she said - my fucking wife,
leaning on the kitchen counter like a Saturday afternoon.
But it was Tuesday and there was blood -
and dirt, there was always dirt in those days -
under my nails from working goddamn hard for her.
Those were still the days of her warm cunt every morning,
my profanity whispered to the ribs under the weight
of her left breast like a goddamned prayer.
Those were the better days and I tried to find rhymes
Between my teeth just for her mouth, her lips, her tongue.
But there ain't no escape from meter gone off-balance
and an ambitious woman climbing above your head.
"Write me a poem," she said - my fucking wife,
and I tried it just for her hair wrapped up in my fingers
as she knelt on the tile like she was worshipping -
Not just my cock but the way things were between us,
ripe and drunk and soaked in purple dye like her lacy things,
frivolous bits I could peel off her like skin falling from its fruit.
She got her poem, verses strung out of me like a junkie
and I wonder if she kept it - hope she has it like preserves
to spread on thick slices of bread on rare cold Georgia mornings.