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​My Voyeur

A fang of frightened color soils the walls.
The stuffy room swoons. A convulsive bath
of sweaty flesh grooving under the squeaking
ceiling fan. I turn her around onto her

slipperysound side, kiss softly her
shoulders and hair, touch the tiny buttons of her
nipples. Mount, surge into the perverse ecstacy
of her moaning proclivities. (Inandoutandoutandinandin

and something feral mutters). Someone's
belly jouncing thirdrate perspective; A scythe of red
flickering absurd; two candles, a lion,
an octopus shadow & the everpresent fat

mortician beating off in the corner of the room.



M.P. Powers is a Chicago native, living in Miami. He poetry can be found in Rosebud, The New York Quarterly, The Battered Suitcase, Snow Monkey, Ramshackle Review and many other fine places.
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