#erotic #poetry Soulless story: pointless poem

Sometimes I read a story - usually an erotic story - and have to applaud the language, the plot, the character development, all that stuff that, for me at least, a good story simply has to have. However, once the applause has died away, I am often left with a hollow feeling, an emptiness I didn't have - or certainly wasn't aware of - before I'd set eyes to page. And that starts me wondering. I wonder what the writer was thinking of, what the writer was intending, and I'm often left with one thought, one  inevitable conclusion. Nothing. They were thinking of nothing. It's a story and no more. Some stuff happened to some people and then they fucked off home.

I've had lovers like that. Full of skill and clever tricks, but no heart. No warmth. It's all a bit clinical. A bit... soulless. Having seen the parallel, I considered writing a story about it, but decided instead to sum it all up in a poem. The meter - iambic pentameter - suited the theme rather well, I thought. Here it is then, along with the illustration I added when, quite recently, I chucked a poetic anthology together and sneaked this one in. The rest of the book's here if you'd like a closer look.

See 'Once concealed:now revealed' on Amazon.

Right then on with the bloody poem!

Soulless story: pointless poem.

You fuck me using all your skill but it's
A soulless story. Where's the slick denouement?
Where's the clever ploy? You leave me full of
Empty joy; a salad feast replete with
Colour, crispness, salty mayonnaise
These weighty days of famine how I crave
A beast with flesh that drips with tasty tallow
Flows with primal energy for me
*
My mouth you fill with meat and drink I do
And think I don't; you're showing off, the science
And all you are is nought, an egg, un ouef
That's not... a shell that's blown and flown, the coup
De grace is absent, bird of paraplegic
Numbness, dumb and sum-less, showering me
With piss and cum lest I should see behind
The false façade and see my lover true
*
You tease me with a tongue so deft, my oozing
Cleft, bereft of feeling feels a nothing
So complete, a pointless poem without
A twist, description overflows but where's
The reason save for fleeting bliss? A kiss,
A rose, would be as sweet... a poem with purpose
Or a story with a soul your goal should
Be. You write for you and not for me
*