Crying in Hiccoughs

Eve

38 And encages his friends in fear, As the earth moves round the sun. But Watch out fools, watch out! Since nothing concretised the death, The dead and interred abroad ain’t dead, But live abroad in pomp. Each passing day unmasks the guilt, Of cowardly friends and foes, And kindles the courage of Time, To prepare his return in fireworks. Eve Seen her before? If not, whenever, Call her Victoria, Or Victorine. Most tenderly, Vicky, Or simply, Vict. She’s at times a Vixen, Sometimes Vivacious, In some cases a Virago, And in most, a Virtuoso. All these, cause she’s Eve, Her lipstick is Violet, Her dress Victorian, And her apple V. 39 She is Vulnerable, Cause she’s Voluptuous, But very vexing, When revolting. She’s mere Vanity, And easily Vanishes, After Vanquishing, With a touch so velvety. Ecstasy The Cry of the Street Girl. A velvety touch, And tender tendons tensed taut, And in the sweet hissing gliding in, I am set ablaze, The spiced smart shuttles thro’ the slit, Sent spasms, no! quivers, no! quakes Thro’ me, I whine, scream or perhaps groan, I know not what, do you? Those silly stupid sweet complaints Of self-sacrifice Increase the tempo. The fire burns wildly. I hit fever pitch. My brows rain… Oooo! Sh,sh, ecst, ecst, ecstasyeeee. I breath in deeply and out, With a releasing relief. The ember dies. I flop. He sags. ...