Ryan P. Quirk
Poetry – First Place
The smoke,
so thick that I decide
to take some home as a memento,
fills this room.
It has become so crucial to this place
that a clear night’s breeze seems alien.
I caress your neck and we begin our session.
Dozens of eyes stare at us in pairs,
listen to us,
and become enraptured by our soft melody.
I close my eyes and this room is as out of reach as God.
As my fingers reach your most tender areas you purr in response;
I’ve lost touch with everything but you.
Your moaning turns into a muffled scream
as I coax you into becoming a monster.
You scream louder now,
oblivious to
The Nameless People
watching.
I slap you hard,
right where you like it
and then rip your g-string from your body.
This ought to prove interesting.