PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My first true love was hot tempered capricious, but her wild

mattress frolics allayed my slippery handheld youth and dry rub

tours with Playboy, Hustler and Penthouse magazines; chronicles

of chicanery sending me searching for those extreme body adorned

women who require no commitments. Life in these shadows

became a narcissistic, prowling excursion up laurel roads to champion

physically manicured, chic-castle virgins, or temerity long tress

ladies – secretly kinky who enjoyed going down on you. However,

that mind corrode ended quickly in hammered ruminations

of a brain walloped into lost mind compliance, copiously analogous

to hollow point bullets fired into anneal, daft male fantasies.

Faster than ice melts in a petroleum fired furnace, my cocky

jingoism turned against me. Short fused rife as if struck by a primitive

déjà vu, shouting how wombs could not save man – she bunny charged

my chauvinistic ideology. My last raiment playmate mutated into

a wannabe always on top, born into trousers, underarm hair, stubble

legs flout, demanding my total submission. No longer satisfied with just

making love, her tongue staked a claim on every part of my exhausted

physique. It appeared her torn hymen was somehow resurrected into

a back off buster, crusading sect of feminine independence.  I was now

face-to-face with a Lilith doppelganger who initiated a relentless salvo

of kiss her ass coup d’état - on my ^^ centerfold ^^ grown personality.

Memories of past phallic plunders yielded to no mas’ forgiveness, as if

a single penis stood on the battlefield to face an army of vaginal ready

cannons. She seemed to enjoy shelling her volley of captured balls

straight back into my lap; until I surrendered playing a flaccid flute

and waving a white maxi pad flag. In less than six months of skirmishes

the only trumpet she was blowing were the swears she used to brake

down the walls of my macho ego. Her verbal retaliations felt more

like circumcision, leaving my prick pinned like a voodoo doll. Yes,

she was no ordinary tampon lady. This was a snappish, self-gratified

tiger, complete with her own pap smear speculum to prove her cervix

was far superior to my testicles, and when she ragged, I soiled my pants.

I believe it was one of those trips to the bathroom to change my boxers

that she uttered her last slang, rip claw perky before saying goodbye. No

more time to decode her pissed off Venus talk, or to consult astrology

books on her true planet of origin. She simply sorceress-poof vanished

conceding no apologies, nor accepting mine. Leaving no blood hound scent

on anything to isolate her destination. Just zap-gone past my tears singing

soprano for days, searching for clues and sniffing reminders in her unwashed

panties and lingerie. My vision clouded fully like placing condoms over

cataracts. Erections were crestfallen, nakedness plundered into hours

of bellyaching anxiety that turned into hot and cold sweats; rain weeping

surges making me sick like painful cramps from a black tar opiate detox.

My God, she left her horse feathers spread all over that evacuated house,

stomped into a refused to be tamed rubble. My ill-fated encounter with

a volcanic Goddess awakened by bids of male domination; firestorms leading

me to the truth about gender equality. Broken dishes leaving an angry tit

collage on the floor. My I-Phone cooked in the microwave, wallet burnt in

the sink, diaphragm floating in the toilet, knife in the flat screen, and every

intimate picture torn to pieces. Wow, what a ride her pony gave me. Leaving

a befuddled soul confused and frustrated in sleepless, celibate nights

that begins and ends without her. The last utterances still making no sense,

lured out my mouth like false teeth on a pilgrimage to the ivory bone yard

of extinction. Thinking out loud, what was that, which way did she go?