Virgo

Virgo’s cup ever threatens to spill over
but never does, save once.
Or maybe its not a cup but the arms
of a slender virgin
raised in supplication
or to ward off a blow.
The only virgin I had was
nude in a fake fur coat,
begging me to,
begging me not to,
cute and coy and secretly
enjoying the tender hooks she had in me.
She fed both ends of that strange male beast—
the Should-I-Shouldn’t-I,
knowing all along that
“the bleating of the kid excites the tiger”.
At least one us knew what we
wanted, expected, desired.
She skinned me after,
stuffed and mounted me:
ravisher ravished, a fitting memento
of the only, unique, unrepeatable time
her cup ran over.

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Comments

  • Gianna  On September 26, 2010 at 5:49 pm

    wow, the ambiguity of reality, where through a slight change of events the ravisher becomes the ravished. Thank you for sharing. the Loss and the loss of expectation a dance no one wants to face I am sorry.

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