Poems by Jeremy H. Prynne

By Jeremy H. Prynne

Poetry from the uk.

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The crude observation was not original to him but a rule of thumb in the dog-eat-dog business in which the slum-born Andy had struggled for the dozen years of his manhood. Hell, there was absolutely nothing personal about his plan for bedding the current object of his attention. Truth was, the midwestern giantess quietly eating soup and minding her own business had no more appeal to Chalminski than the zucchini his waitress brought along with his small steak. Her face was probably not as homely as the dictionary definition of zucchini ("a squash shaped like a cucumber")—he couldn't see much of it with that straight brown hair drooping over her ears and temples—but Andy had seen a picture of her in the newspaper before flying to Columbus, and her glasses were as thick and heavy as World War I flyers' goggles.

So did I. " Cynthia brought her fingers close to her face, rubbed them together. " "So am I," he laughed. " The image of him lying on his bed, the sheets like an ink blotter, came to her again. In the shadows, her own wet hands were slicked with darkness. And a smell drifted from her fingers, whose tips had dipped gently inside her. It was a flat, acrid smell, metallic. The smell of dirty metal and copper pennies. Blood. Her stomach, which she had ignored, leapt uncontrollably. It was all she could do to drop the phone and lower her head before she vomited.

But it feels so good. Stings a little, but. . " An image of him appeared unbidden in her mind: a vague face grimacing, a nude body writhing upon the white sheets of a bed at the center of a Rorschach test of blood. The straining, swelling thing he held in his closed fist was a deep, dark red, the secret, warm red of the interior of a cherry pie. Warmth spread out in waves from her pubis, even as her stomach shivered at this image. Cynthia found, perversely, that her own disgust only seemed to heighten the arousal she was now fighting.

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