We couldn't help ourselves, We'd been driving for hours & had worked up some tension. At the rest stop we barely did, In a flash we were naked & on top of the hood I did partake Of your succulence. We were oblivious to The big rigs flying by As I emptied a steady stream Of warmth inside you. Those truckers were'nt blind, They were beeping their Horns from both lanes. When I look back now, I think we were both insane. But I'd still do it all over again, If you only knew.
rest.
Author: Jonny Angel
0
Date: 06/04/2020
¹ 1205739
No rest for my weary head
It's three in the morning Again. I'm awake still. Weary And so fucking tired. But things are the same as they've always been.
I stroll through forest, still in slumber Branches sway, as I lumber. Curtain of weeping pavillion, Infinite stars down to million. I sit in prop root of willow's gurney, Childhood start, I end journey. Back brings hand of icy chill, Head brings hand of fever still. Skin weeps; icy branch to break, Wind's music through willow lace. Finally cared for, and feeling slumbrous, Bedding down forever, in willow umbrage.
Inside these dimensions of my prison, Paralyzed, immobilized, Shattered in fragments of fear, I utter stifled screams From my body heap, Piled on the hardwood floor
C R
U
M B
L I N
G
Trapped, desolate and Wretched in mind, What is left of me after invasion and ravage?
Chase away this these vultures and thieves, So to shut out this duality Blinding me, A rabbit caught in headlights up Me pick
The man who scored a hat-trick Is having a baby. OK, he's not, His girlfriend is. A baby. They're all having babies. A twenty inch squirm Swaddled by a blanket, Eyes like marbles. All having them. It seems so. Either that Or they're getting married. The biggest day of big days, apparently. Soon there will be invites. Maybe. Showing off the calligraphy. I can picture it, A suit creased once, a glass of fizz As a stranger takes photos To be tucked inside albums I'll never take a look at. Those I've known know others now. They are settling into a life That writes itself, like a book Never moved from its place On the shelf. There will be A triangle of kids kissing Before you ever did, Hands fumbling as if the other person Is a button, noses bumping. There will be a house With a dishwasher and pictures On the walls from the honeymoon In Greece you didn't know about - perhaps don't care. Soon you and they will be thirty And forty and fifty And their squirm will grow Before you've even blinked Or had time to toast the bread. Some already have. The hat-trick man is smiling. I should proffer congratulations, Type out ‘bundle of joy' At the pencil-esque ultrasound, The shapes that will become human. We're the same age, miles apart. They're all at it, it seems. The girlfriends that is. Having babies.
