An older poem of mine and Paul's from the beginning of our poetry correspondence.

This poem is, I think the third or fourth poem that Paul and I cunt-cock-ted from way back, when we first began to correspond by poetry. I will submit this whole book one day. It's 80 pages thus far and we've done more since. But I've been too busy with other things. So I thought I post something to keep my friends entertained.


“Paul”wrote,

The Yellow Mellow Cock-Tale-Server.

There once was a come-ly-dian, who made Paul,
stand up straight in her narrows,
like an arrow hitting the cow's weeping eye.
Time flies so fast, lets put everything in slow motion,
to drag it out as long as it can-can dance in the dark.
“You definitely were on top,
and on top of your and my form,
your own conclusions most fitting last night my friend.”
One good turn of phrase deserves another.

The cocktail server loved to serve cock on a silver platter,
as her tail was served right over the night,
with the skill of a champion tennis playher fiddle.
She reserved the right to enthuse service,
with humdigger synergy.
He massages her with messages,
as slowly as an ice age,
growing her nipples into pyramids,
did I pass the taste test,
and pin a pearly medal on each breast?
He fed her last night a vanilla milk shake rattle and roll,
she too, him to the backside of rebelief,
and found him wanting.
He lapped up every word that came out of her pussy's mouth, they did laps around their one track minds.
“If you found yourself castaway on a dessert island,
with a pirate what would you make him do?
Dig for treasure at X-rated marks the g-spot,
sis-boom-magic-box?”
“She has a piece of rubyfruit pie,
baking between her thighs, should we start?”
We desert by parting the rind with our dirty minds.
Of course he's ready for lift-get-off from the get-some-go,
to thrust his rocket into her woman in the moon,
and take her, make her see shooting stars.
But time flies,
so “lets go as slow as coral grows off the coast of Australia.”
His words were chilling,
they made her nipples grow into pyramids.
“The things that come out of your mouth,
make me want to come in your mouth,”
then concentrated it into his hands,
and he slid his fingers through her long dark hair,
like a gentle tropical waterfall.
She pulled her dress up,
like raising a curtain at a burlesque show,
and tell all, “if we're having dessert,
lets do it right and on the money,
shot your wad on the kitchen table,
I'll pull up a chair and part your hair down the middle,
and play your pussy like a fiddle.”
She sat on the table and pulled up her curtain,
her thighs as open as her mind's eye of the tiger,
he pulled up a chair,
and rudely stared starry eyed at her prize,
where he kissed inside each knee
making her shimmer like a flag in a breeze,
he massages her thighs with his palms,
memorizing every hair and purple fold,
like a great sonnet wanting to unwrap her,
like a Christmas present.
He traced the infinity symbol on the inside of her thighs,

“gotta run off at the mouth...


“Ally”responded,

Gee my yellow mellow cloud,
usually comes in the form of Valium or Lorazepam,
glad I can have that drugging effect,
if only it worked on all men like that,
oh what a following of wagging tails I’d have now,
but alas those days of delighting tails who hunger pole dancing,
is in the past and fading further away as the years go by.
Although I still can-can do my version of the can-can,
never in the dark cause I-wanna-see-see-saw it all,
but only lasts on top now for a minute,
before the legs-legs fall and burn from the sky above me.
Tis funny you should mention pyramid formed breasts,
as that’s what mine look like now,
only pointing downward to the ground,
flat and have no longer a 3D dimension,
yet demented, still lovely to suckle.
Oh a gal would gladly accept a pirate,
and an island to ravage and feed her one track lap,
and knowing men like she does,
would have to guild him to the X,
as most men are too blind to spot the G.
I am sure he would pass the taste test,
as well as you with sweet coconut-juices.
Oh to feed you ruby-fruit pie,
in the tropical waterfalls of Australia,
as we bask on the coral sandy shore of for-get-me-not sand,
where not only the stars are shooting.
Another neat place to be marooned,
twood be Christmas Island,
where at every table twas a present just for you,
bearing fruity folds of-a-fiddle, each hidden,
behind silk curtains shimmering in the sun-light-breezes,
scented like jasmine and coconut-drink-my-milk.
Play my fiddle each would scream,
play it like the devil-went-down to my Georgia-bush.
When you win your present,
she will reward you with an inviting want-you-in-me prize,
where she will play your flute like a concerto,
in 3 different positions, to bog-your-mind glory.

Yes our little game of words-mind-body last night,
left my mind spinning and wanting as well, thankyou.
Who would have thought,
when I asked you to stimulate my mind and keep me entertained,
you would be so very up to the task.
Amazing abso-fuckin-lutely amazing.
Stimulating mind-breath-body-blood.
A treat among treats and a will-never-forget-me-not experience.