I delight in the one-up, one-down waddle of your buttocks.
I exist, mostly, to have my eyes hooked perversely over the top of the paper I am reading and hauled along the carpet one cheek swing at a time as if tethered.
I sweat filthiest Ginsberg verse profusely through layers of eyebrows as you pirouette and bend and guffaw with your arse at my need to hide my voyeuristic desires behind my paper.
Like two chocolate eggs in a tightly tied Easter net sack
upon which Want wishes to feast, wonting I lack.
I stop pretending to be coherent.
I mop saliva with my paper,
and spring forth from chair
and splat and sink
my tensed jaw deeply.
If you've any comments on this poem, Bob Davies would be pleased to hear from you.