Good boy:

:::whimper:::

Yes, my mistress, goddess, and muse, I play the part you find suitable for me, perform for your pleasure, endure your whims, and succumb to your desires.

Where you lead I will follow, where you send me I will fly, and where you plant me I will flourish.

I am yours to use, lend, or store, and to those with whom you would share me I will bend my knee, will, and virtue.

At the Poetry Reading

John Brehm

I can’t keep my eyes off the poet’s

wife’s legs—they’re so much more

beautiful than anything he might

be saying, though I’m no longer

in a position really to judge,

having stopped listening some time ago.

He’s from the Iowa Writers Workshop

and can therefore get along fine

without my attention. He started in

reading poems about his childhood—

barns, cornsnakes, gradeschool, flowers,

that sort of stuff—the loss of

innocence he keeps talking about

between poems, which I can relate to,

especially under these circumstances.

Now he’s on to science, a poem

about hydrogen, I think, he’s trying

to imagine himself turning into hydrogen.

Maybe he’ll succeed. I’m imagining

myself sliding up his wife’s fluid,

rhythmic, lusciously curved, black-

stockinged legs, imagining them arched

around my shoulders, wrapped around my back.

My God, why doesn’t he write poems about her!

He will, no doubt, once she leaves him,

leaves him for another poet, perhaps,

the observant, uninnocent one, who knows

a poem when it sits down in a room with him.

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What do you think? I’ve been to my fair share of poetry readings, and most times rather than not, they can be quite yawn-inducing.  Yet I collect, read and write poetry.  I think, perhaps, poetry was meant to be read. It is of ink and parchment, and perhaps even kindles and monitors.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’d be looking at the poet’s wife’s legs too.  Wouldn’t you?

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If you like this poem as much as I do, visit Mr. Brehm’s website HERE.

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Thank you, Pervert Savant, for submitting this lovely piece for our PSO-etry collection. You sure do know how to pick ’em.

xo, Angela

From Secrets in Lace, of course.

REFRAIN:  WITH YOUR DICK BETWEEN MY LEGS

Karyna McGlynn

With your dick beween my legs,
you ask: what up?:

you ask me a pointed question
but it’s too hard to answer.

you don’t breathe.
You’re like this stiff I saw at a funeral once
(he had on orange eye shadow and I went,
like, totally necro for about three seconds).

you feel lucky, but, no; it’s more than that.
You are a commuter with the right of way;
your finger flicks through morning radio
as you suck the whip off a giant mocha.

you’ve got a big head.
You flare your nostrils and smile fatly.

you secretly hum the theme from Shaft.

a vein in your forehead pops and the whole room
smells like canaries as the aneurism comes
all over your face.

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Ms. McGlynn’s website  & on YouTube.  And you really should check her out because she’s quite beautiful.