Poem: False Promise of Van Pussy

I occasionally wake up at absurdly early hours. Not on purpose. It just happens. When it does I do one of three things: go back to sleep, surf the internet, or write poetry. This morning I ripped off some poems. I liked the one with naughty language best. If it offends sensibilities, then I guess that stinks. It’s just a poem. Probably best to put any ill feelings in perspective, like, why bother?

False Promise of Van Pussy

We meet each day at the corner.
It just so happens.
We’re friends I guess.
I wouldn’t do his laundry,
but we’re friends I guess.

The guy bought a van the other day.
White spit on a filth of dirt - He tells me.
Thing is nasty. He tells me.
I can fuck in the back.
A pussy magnet for sure. He tells me.

But do you? I ask.
Fuck? In the van?
Yeah - do you fuck in the van? I ask.
Presently? He asks.
Sure. I reply.
No. Not yet. But I could.
And the idea pleases me.

Cream Cheese pleases me. I say.
Exactly. He nods.
We’re closer now.
Despite my intentions.

One week later - same rotten corner as always.
He drives up.
His van’s a matter of taste.
He rolls down the window.
Leans my way.

Pretty sweet huh?
It’s rhetorical -
but requires a verbal response of some sort.
Better than walking - I say.
You fuck in it yet? I ask.
Naw. Bitches you know?
Not really.
I jerked off in the back a couple times.
He smiles with that.

It’s a start. I say.
Figure. He says.
I’m gonna go get me some pussy. He says.
Wanna hop in? He asks.
No. I say.
No need to ask again. I add.
Your loss. He says.
And he drives away - on a false promise of van pussy.

We’re friends I guess.
No one’s ever asked me.
I kinda hope They don’t.

Post Tags: friends + poem + Poetry + pussy + van // Subscribe // Bookmark