A Real Friendship Poem

Dear Friend,

When you are sad . . .
I'll get you drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bitch/bastard that made you sad.
When you are blue . . .
I'll try to dislodge whatever is choking you.
When you smile . . .
I'll know you finally got laid.
When you are scared . . .
I'll rag you about it every chance I get.
When you are worried . . .
I'll tell you horrible stories about how bad your life really is and demand that you quit whinning.
When you are confused . . .
I'll use little words to explain it to your dumb ass.
When you are sick . . .
STAY AWAY FROM ME until you are well again. I don't want what you have.
When you fall . . .
I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.

This is my oath . . . I pledge till the end. Why you ask? Because you are my friend.

P.S. A friend will bail you out of jail. A really good friend will be sitting beside you saying "Well, we fucked up but wasn't it fun?"

Don't Let It End

Today
Such a lonely day
I try to find my way
But you
Only you
Occupy my mind
And I try to understand the reason why
You're pushing me away
And I try to understand the reason why


Don't let it end
Cause I can't pretend
I'm not going to cry if you do
Don't let me go
Darlin' you know
My heart is breaking in two
Don't let it end
Why can't we mend
These wounds left open so long
Don't let it end
Cause I can't pretend
To stop loving you


Today
I heard you calling me
But it's just a storm outside
And today
I want you next to me
Your heart playing with my mind
And I try to understand the reason why
You're pushing me away
And I try to understand the reason why


Don't let it end
Cause I can't pretend
I'm not going to cry if you do
Don't let me go
Darlin' you know
My heart is breaking in two
Don't let it end
Why can't we mend
These wounds left open so long
Don't let it end
Cause I can't pretend


I know it's holding on too hard
Even if dreams have passed me by


Don't let it end
Cause I can't pretend
I'm not going to cry if you do
Don't let me go
Darlin' you know
My heart is breaking in two
Don't let it end
Why can't we mend
These wounds left open so long
Don't let it end
Cause I can't pretend
To stop loving you

Murderer

It's dark outside
And the air is cold
Inside isn't much better
Or so I've been told
Of a killer amoung us
The attack wasn't heard
No screaming, no stabbing
How absurd
But then there's a body
Her name was Lisa Marie
I'll find her killer
And wave my usual fee
In a pool of blood
A dagger was found
No body move
Don't make a sound
I conclude this happened in cold blood
Now there's one thing left to do
Time to unmask the mad man
The killer is . . .
YOU!

Center Point

When I was 20 I saw sex in everything. I had just been made love to for the first time and despite the ineptitude of the coupling and ultimate dissatisfaction of the whole event, it opened up a whole new world to me. Freud made perfect sense. Walking down the city streets I was astonished by the eroticism of the thrusting skyscrapers and the overt sexuality of the trains spearing through tunnels and smokers luxuriously dragging on cigarettes. And I was belwildered why everyone else wasn't as dumbstruck by this unashamed concrete carnality as I was. From my bedroom window I could see the city skyline with the long needle of Centerpoint rearing up from the middle, a large cantilevered penis.

It soon became clear that my first sexual encounter had set the pattern with that boy and we were never to achieve mutual fulfilment. So I set out to seduce my first older man - he was 24. On our first night together, awkwardly entagled on the back seat of his stationwagon, I begged him to teach me how to mine the carnal depths of my body and coax me to the ultimate release I had never experienced. But his fulsome erection deflated at my words like a pricked balloon, never to arise in my presence again.

After that I tried many types of men and many types of sex: oral sex, sex standing up, sex from behind, sex on top, sex on beaches, in swimming pools, in nightclub toilets - in fact, surprisingly little sex on beds. But I couldn't achieve satisfaction.

The buildings, trains and cigarette-smokers mocked me. Centerpoint mocked me, thrusting with insouciant tumescene into the clouds.

I searched for clues to my state from my childhood. Eventually I remembered asking my third grade teacher what sex was. She told me it was when daddy put his penis into mummy's vagina and semen came out. I didn't know what penis was, or vagina, but I recognised semen. And for years pondered the strange events that somehow linked my parents to a bunch of sailors.

I had sex with a sailor. It was no good.

Then I stopped having sex altogether. Occaionally I would try masterbation. Candles burning, soft music playing in the bedroom and a magazine "how-to" guide insecurely propped against my parted kness. I would delve and rub for hours, but I just grew sore and sleepy and started flicking through the magazine, and eventually gave up on that as well.

I knew I could it, though, because sometimes in the deepest, darkest part of the night I would have dreams I could never remember in the morning and a tremendous spasming in my body would wake me up, and when I reached between my legs I would be wet - but by then it would all be over.

He was not the sort of man I imagined, the many times I tried to imagine that man I still believed would one day show me how to tap my well of sexual pleasure. I had always been attracted to the overtly seductive, men who ignalled their prowess with their confident gestures and suggestive small-talk. Taken in by the advertising. He had no small-talk, made no guestures. Eventually it was his stillness I noticed, the impression he gave of complete self-containment. And when the other guests at my flatmates' dinner party had left, I knew he would stay behind and follow me up to my room. And he did.

He hardly talked. He guided me with his fingertips, showing me how he wanted my limbs arranged on the bed. On my back, on my belly, my legs closed or apart, arms reaching above my head or resting by my side. And him sitting fully-clothed and crosslegged, watching me, just watching. Eyes closed, I let myself be choreographed.

His gaze seemed to fall on me like a weight. Without seeing him I could feel where his eyes were resting. Now on my breasts, my ass, the small of my back, my throat, my mouth. Each place burned as his stare touched it. Hipbones, ankles, thighs, between my thighs; he dissected me. And there was no impatience, no urgency, just peace and languor and the burning lust that heated my blood. And then he began to caress me. Slowly, leisurely. Like a blind man feeling a woman for the very first time, he ran his hands over every part of me. He felt the joints in my toes, the calluses on my heels, rubbed my ankles and traced the muscles in my calves, massaged my thighs, my ass, ran his fingertips up my spine, pressed my shoulder blade, explored the bumps of my skull, his big hands spooning through my hair. He turned me over and touched my cheekbones, ran a fingernail across my lips, took my breasts into his hands, stroked my belly.

Wherever his eyes had rested, his hands lingered. And then he opened my legs and felt very softly between them, parting the soft lips of the vulva, plundering the source of the moisture. And then one forefinger touched my clitoris and paused on it, teased it, and I moved my legs even wider apart and groaned, and almost wished he would stop because the sensations spiralling out from the tender, center point were nearly painful in their intensity. But he kept massaging and rubbing, the circluar motion soft but insistent. And then it was like the deepest, darkest times the spasming was pure and powerful and my whole body seemed to clench and release itself over and over again as he drove his fingers deeply into me and I orgasmed from his hand, spreadeagled on the bed.

I had many men after him, and much satisfaction, as long as they were slow and sure, less passionate then patient. But I always think of him with affection as my first, perfect lover.

Angel Of Seduction

I am an angel, with the legs of Elle Macpherson and the mind of Madonna. My name is Seduction. I am flying over the city tonight, looking for my prey.

Two million years ago I had a lover, his name was the Prince of Lust. He was Michaelangelo's David, strong limbs chiselled from stone. We made love across the centuries of clouds, grass and ocean. Our orgasms shook the world in earthquakes and tidal waves. But the frigid angels banished us from heaven for our wanton ways. They cursed us never to be able to touch or love each other again. But we found a way. We learned to use mortals as our mediums, possessing their bodies so that we may once more drown in our desire.

I see your bathroom light is on, and land lightly on your rooftop. My silk coat unfurls to the night as I glide down the drainpipe and look in the window. You are standing in front of the mirror, admiring yourself in your satin and lace nightdress. I slide one perfect leg in the window, then the other dropping gracefully to the floor. For a second you feel my presence as a chill runs down your spine. Seeing the window is open, you snap it shut. I laugh a laugh you do not hear.

I stand behind you and brush my golden fingers over your bare shoulders. The goosebumps on your bosom reach a cresecendo at your nipples, making them hard as diamonds. Warm love juices begin to trickle between your thighs.

"Will you be long, honey?" he calls from the bedroom.

"Just a minute," you call back, surprised at the extent of your own desire.

I lift your nightdress and spread your tembling legs. My fingers circle your sex, wet in musky milkiness. I pull back the hood of your clitoris and tickle the delicate jewel. You stifle a moan and lean on the handbasin. I rub in a steady rthythm until the shockwaves run down your legs and cosmetic bottles tip over with your climax.

I climb out from under your nightdress. You are smiling at your flushed reaction, and I know you are ready. I change form and step inside your body, and we become one. For a moment you see me shine in your eyes, then you become the seductress.

You open the bedroom door and glide like a fiery ghost to the bed. The movement of your nightdress on your tingling skin feels like the hand of a lover. Your whole body is burning with desire. He looks up from his book, about to say something but you silence him with a look . . . the book falls to the floor with a thud. "Honey, you seem so . . ." You tear the sheet from the bed and his erection strands before you. Smiling, you lean over and take him in your mouth. He moans and clutches the back of your head. You look up into his eyes, allowing me to see that the Prince of Lust has possessed your lover's body. His piercing blue eyes gaze into mine, and we smile wickedly at each other.

You slide your tongue along the length of your lover's penis, making little circles on the tip. He thrusts deep into your mouth, imagining the feel of things to come. His breathing becomes short and his hand grips the side of the bed. A spasm passes through his body, and you quickly sit up, clasping the head of his penis tightly between your fingers. "Not yet," you whisper.

He looks at you with yerning eye, powerless in your grasp. You caress his smooth chest with kisses and lick the soft skin inside his elbows. He groans and grabs hungrily at your nightdress, peeling it away.

Pinning your arms above your head, he sucks at your breasts, sending little thrills of pleasure down your body. His warm kisses move along your quivering skin, then he sits back and slides his hand underneath your ass, pulling your sex to his mouth like a taste peach. You open up to him like a flower.

"Not yet," he whispers, as he kisses the ticklish skin of your inner thighs. You sigh with pleasure and move his hand towards your sex. He traces the moist lips with his fingers before thrusting two of them inside. You writhe wth delight while he pushes them in further, twisting and twisting until you cry out. "I want you," you moan. His erection is straining to full length as he takes out a condom. You shudder in anticipation with the sound of the packet ripping. He starts to roll the condom on but your greedy hands take over and quickly finish the job.

He moves into you a little at a time, torturing you with expectation. Your hands dig into his back begging him to thrust in further. He wraps his arms around you and pounds into you to the hilt, harder and harder as the beat becomes more rapid. Your bodies strain for release. The sweat of your stomachs mingles together and runs down your thighs until it's impossible to distinguish the different types of wetness. His hard chest pushes against your breasts,as you bruise each other's hips with your desperation. All your muscles stretch and pull you to climax until the room explodes into white sparks of light.

As you and your lover collapse into each other's arems, the Prince of Lust and I can touch briefly before fleeing into the night.