Stranded in (Sus)sex

She’d felt stranded in Sussex

beneath the gibbous moon

jibing at her through

broken clouds.

 

She’d tried Essex—dull, plebian—

failed to find Wessex,

contemplated Nosex—

dismissed it.

 

She’d thought Brighton would be—well,

bright, but the Allsex on

offer was somehow as

damp as the air.

 

She’d dumped her husband for the

zillionth time, though he’d be back,

coiled in oil, trailing

fit mechanics.

 

She’d fuck them all of course, it being

expected of her, chained as she was

to the heart, soul and

sink of love.

 

She’d hoped to find respite from sex but

her genes said otherwise, her loins

always wet, her pheromones a

red rag to bulls.

 

She’d scoured the small ads for

somewhere remote from the

relentless smell of men, in the

high Downs perhaps, a

 

small stream draining, no masculinity

except that kept neatly labelled and

bottled against need,

locked in her shed.

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Comments

  • Cheeks  On January 6, 2016 at 1:51 am

    Hey fridayam, I’m new at this, reading poetry in English for the first time in an *awfully* long time…
    I like this one, but I could not for the life of me explain why… I’m just appreciative for now. Thanks for your words!

    • fridayam  On January 6, 2016 at 6:25 pm

      Hey Cheeks, it is just lovely for you to take the time to comment! Thank you. I hope you read more x

    • fridayam  On January 6, 2016 at 6:49 pm

      I would also point out that it is the first comment I have had since October 2nd last year, so you understand how welcome it is 🙂 x

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