Cagey Congregations [Poem] by Misty Rampart

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She may not be a Siren
but she’s an alarm
that you should know
better than to ignore,
bring home,
tender little pussy, sure,
but not to be outgraced
by your talents.

That girl with the bangs,
motherfucker, you know the one,
whose mouth you fucked
right in our kitchen,
your cum drippings
and her perfume smell telltale.

The little girl you fucked
on the cold granite counter
while I was at work. Thank
God you pulled out
just in time
and shot all over
the custom cabinetry.

I looked closely at
the couch
where you fucked her again:
a huge wet spot where
you presumably let
her spew.

Yes, that’s the one.

I know. I know
I could never compete
with that 22-year-old mouth
and motorized hips.

Yes, yes. A tragic figure,
sure.
She needs you, sure.
Yes, it is all her fault.
I know.

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