33 My pen is a whore

Posted by sarahsmiles on February 17th, 2007 filed in Uncategorized

I am not a poet, a poetaster, or a wordsmith.
There is nothing forged at the tip of my pen
that is more than fractured musings
of a broken voice, in verse.
Nothing has been written in the cream page
of my moleskine born from craft of a solitary mind.

My pen is a whore, and together we turn the cheap trick,
for quick gag reflexive verse that barely utters a sound.
When I hope to speak, I am silent at best or vapid trite
at my silent best. When I am vacant, truly empty,
my muse come a whoring. My pen scratches across
her ink-wet gash. Pen nib clit rub shaking syllables
of sweat meaning moans and thrashes out textualities
washing sheets’ ejaculate. Hugging me tight,
I am forced to play along, trying to guess her mood,
moving in circling rhythms, my cries echo hers,
I scratch her itch, hoping she knows what she wants
this time, knowing she doesn’t care for my pleasure,
only that I make the right moves, cry out when I should
and in the end tell her that she’s the best lover
a poet could ever have.

And when she’s gone, I clean up all signs
of what has taken place, wash the stains,
and gather the broken bottles of her perfume
sniffing if anything has been left behind,
only then do I see my present before me.
A gift, euphemistically denying that I didn’t work
my ass off for this. I’ve been well fucked again,
my fingers sour, numb tongue, and sore
where she bit too hard. As she left, a knowing
smirk on her lips. I know she’ll be back.
I’m a good little poetwhore. And she knows
of the smile spreading across my face
at the shiny prize she’s left me this time.

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