Short poems


It’s allergy season and the nose is always something of an issue,
So instead of rubbing it between your breasts I thrust it into a tissue.
But I miss you.

That which sees but is not seen
And puts on flesh to feel,
Immerses itself in the carnal dream
And bobs to the surface for meals.

Etre né,
C’est oublier.

Breeds caress.

Hollow distance,
Strange persistence.

A beautiful place,
Its own time and pace.

Put it in the drawer.
Never touch it more.

The mother country’s not easy to love.
It’s just full of mothers and fuckers thereof.

In the winter I’m a Buddhist,
In the summer I’m a nudist,
And when happiness is mootest
That’s just when I’m at my cutest.

The perspiration on your anal pucker,
Oh, sweetest distillation of your shit!—
Emboldens me to fix thereto my sucker
So I can work my tongue around in it.

A pleasure almost too intense to mention,
The perspiration glistening on your toes,
Lubricates my sordidest attentions,
To try to force each digit up my nose.

Also by Robert MacLean:

The President's Palm Reader: A Washington Comedy at Amazon US, Amazon UK, Amazon Germany, Smashwords, Apple, Barnes and Noble, Sony, Kobo, Diesel—the whole street.

Foreign Matter: In Trouble with My Fantasies at Amazon US, Amazon UK, Amazon Germany, Smashwords and the others.

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