GerrEmOut…
It is that type of party,
and that time of night,
and that special kind of drunk,
where minds have become
little hot-air balloons of consciousness,
buoyed and bobbing in warm ether,
and communication, signals from the basket,
searchlights and shaving mirrors, flashes,
eyelashes blinking in morse code.
Off to one side,
the hostess has been set upon
by a pack of wild boors,
wires bristling, pawing
at her dress, the psychic saws
of their backthroats baying:
“GerrEmOut! GerrEmOut! GerrEmOut!”
She sighs, relents,
and, burrowing in the bottom
of a forgotten cupboard, presents
them with a simple wooden box.
Inside, nested in folded silk:
her breasts,
still fresh, the flesh, soft, warm,
pert, each nipple a beehive,
fiercely buzzing.
Amid the frenzied howling
that this provokes,
and after a brief entreaty
to look but not touch,
she is able to slip her leash, unnoticed,
and retires to her room,
where she lies, sighs,
and then cracks the spine
of whichever Philosopher
she is presently falling in love with.
