Eeksy-Peeksy

augury doggerel

Sunday, June 23, 2002

Teeming

I was the only customer in the pub, outnumbered three to one by the staff, until a few minutes ago. The entire rugby team has come to swallow all the space around my stool and force me to hunch over my reading and writing and guard my seat. They are out to be manly men in force, so I poke back at them with my pen (no, not literally) and try not to giggle like a boy.

There are at least twenty, no, thirty shorn heads mounted like gun turrets on batterable bodies, all sucking off the tops of pints, sharing plates of gravied beef, moving shoulder to shoulder with big arms hung around one another's neckless necks. If any one of them could read English, this would be my suicide note:

I like to grab and ground a sweaty man
And fist my flesh to his and hear him gasp
And bunch his shorts around his swollen span
And make him take the pleasure of my grasp.

But they can't read English or you wouldn't be reading this, because I don't know how to write dead. And now I can get back to my reading.



And more gibberish.

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