By The Walrus
© 2013 David Jasmin-Green
As I trace the perfect curvilinear arc
of your incomparably lovely breasts
and teasingly lick the circumference of
your chocolate digestive coloured areolas
before concentrating on the proud hat-pegs
that I love more than my own life
you look up at the ceiling which, you insist,
needs painting. Urgently. Infuriatingly
you remind me about the shelves I promised
to put up in the lounge, ooh, bloody months ago.
As I softly pinch the cute chubbiness
of your delicious Mound of Venus
(the only bit of fat on your prime carcass)
and lovingly stroke your prim perineum
before oh so slowly travelling north you tell me
how criminally the price of cheese has risen over
the past few weeks. Casually you inform me that
Prince, your sister's psychotic Border collie,
has been put to sleep for savaging the postman.
I sigh, long and loud, but sadly it falls on deaf ears.
So I get on with it, and shoot my bolt in disgust
more than ecstasy. I roll over, condemned,
defeated, wondering why all of a sudden
I'm such a lousy lover. And for a horrible moment
I envy the poor, executed pooch.