The M Word

CAUTION: EXPLICIT LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL CONTENT

Man sits with his
hand down his pants
Masturbating sir?
Fiddling with your bits?
And that is acceptable

Woman sits with her
hand down her pants
Masturbating madam?
Playing with your clit?
And that is NOT acceptable

He’s
Spanking the Monkey
Jerking the Gherkin
Beating his meat
Waxing the carrot
Tugging the slug
Burping the worm
Playing pocket pinball
Pulling the Pope
He’s wanking
He’s wanking
He’s wanking

And guess what?

WOMEN MASTURBATE

We’re
Auditioning the finger puppets
Fanning the fur
Buttering our muffin
Diddling Miss Daisy
Playing the piano
Petting the bunny
Flicking the bean
Smacking the pony
She’s wanking
She’s wanking
She’s wanking
(but ‘nicely’)

And why do all the
female wanking
euphemisms
Sound so goddam acceptable
So goddam wholesome
So goddam
NICE!

Do we have to be
beautified and stereotyped
even in masturbation?

Is it because it sounds
gentler falling upon
women’s ears?

Or less offensive
Screaming in the ears
of the men?

©2020 Sarah Drury

Sixteen Stone Food Porn

I am that
sixteen stone woman
about whom
doctors waxed
all lyrical
BMI through the
confectionary roof
It’s definitely a miracle
that

calories
taste so good
on my orgasmic lips
Fuck that Shakira
and her never lying hips
we’re talking Mr Whippy
here and
not pink fruit tea sips
And my clothes say
NO!!
but my poor self image
slips
another Mars Bar
in my gob

Apart from chocolate
heaven hell starvation
My mirror says
“put your fucking
glasses on”
My stomach
Cries “damnation”
And denies
it’s been involved in
the gastric augmentation
Of my gut

My body is a feast
of gastronomic gluttony
It’s sad when screwing food
is my primary fantasy
I get panty gusset wet
at the thought of
fresh whipped cream
And I would love to see
if chocolate cake could
screw me
like wet dreams
Laying spread eagled
A top the bed
feasting on ice cream
Vagazzle dazzle showing
Glinting blatant and obscene
Flicking V’s at
the fat shamers
the health proclaimers
calorie savers
Hit that tongue, Jack
the oven’s on
and there’s no going back
For a spoon

©2020 Sarah Drury

Dancing With Dead Men

True story. Eight years ago I had a really bad manic episode where I became seriously psychotic. I fell in love with a spiritual teacher in America and this whole make believe relationship evolved. In my head he had magical powers. I would hear him talking to me and feel him making love to me. It was so real. But I was so poorly.

I could feel you, my love
But they said you weren’t there
They said it was all in my head
I was unwell
You were one I lived and breathed for
I was dancing with the dead
Mind wide open
Eyes wide shut
Fucking a man who lived in my psyche
Like some kind of rapturous, spiritualist slut
That the churches hate but the devil likes

Relationships are not easy
Maybe I needed someone to hold me
Someone to tell me it was ok
That I was ok
Some full on physical contact
To caress my lonely flesh
To satisfy me the way only
My lonely, aching soul knows best
You were half of my soul
A twin flame
You breathed in another continent
But your lungs belonged here
You had your spiritual fame
New Age spouting from a magnetic mouth
And for all of this shit you put the blame
On me
On my fifty shades of all kinds of crazy

I believed that through enchanted eyes
You watched me
You shifted the laws of the universe
To be with me
You spoke to me in my telepathy head
In stereotypical, happy storybook endings
Through some kind of
Screwed up mystical internet

Then I crashed like a game of Jenga
Tears of fear and desperation
Blown around like dandelion seeds
In a Salvador Dali surrealist creation
Trying to hold on
But my grip on reality was too weak
And my hands, my poor, weak hands

And then
I couldn’t feel you
My heart was beating solo
My mind had sunk so fucking low
They said it was all in my head
Take these pills they’ll sort you out
They said
And within four weeks
You were dead
To me

©2020 Sarah Drury

Flogging

This was inspired by my old neighbour who used to sell her wares on street corners.

WARNING: EXPLICIT LANGUAGE

Red hair blazing
Like a fuck me beacon
A barber’s pole but throbbing in male pants
Face a dot to dot of drug induced acne
Parading your heroin chic
Decency don’t mean shit

You never keep your legs shut
Self employment makes it rather draughty
And as a small business you should
Protect your assets
But you can’t get insurance
On gynaecology

Hanging around on seedy corners
Perverts cruising, risking a bruising
Chancing chancers
You don’t know, you don’t know
Flogging your fanny today
Digging your grave when the sun
Mourns your demise
And the dealers
Mourn their suicide pockets

A fuck for the addiction of heroin culture
Shame when your fanny is a currency
You pay in dirty needles
And white powder lines of escapism
For a few moments you’re out of here
Shooting up in Nirvana
Profits in your greedy veins
Coke up your wannabe Beyonce nose

I wish I could help
And the churches say that
No one is beyond redemption
But you’re lost to the devil now
You sold your soul for a moment of heaven
And found your sanctity
In the arms of an addictive addiction
Bride of a heroin fix

©2020 Sarah Drury

Oedipus

CAUTION – EXPLICIT

Oedipus

You’d had a three in the bed you said
You smelled of expensive whiskey
If I’d have taken a match to you
You’d have burned in Hell
I loved you
But I didn’t love your insensitive mouth
When it ran with tales of sex and indiscretion
Of screwing whores and adultery
You must have fucked the telephone directory
Or be bullshitting

I fell into your trap
Sitting for hours online spouting utter crap
About how we’d make such sweet, sweet love
Insanely when we met
Had I slept with any women
But never wanting to know whether
I’d fucked any sexy men
Maybe you were just jealous
Or threatened

We skipped the light fandango
Took foolish risks
Burning sheets alight with red hot sex
I never liked a penis
But it was all part of the thing with men
A soulless blow job
Was part of the meal deal
Cucumber when you’re partial to peaches

You never hid any of your other seedy conquests
You relished in detailing the bitter facts
How Annie in Dublin had the perfect pussy
And you’d taken the perfect picture
To commemorate the perfect fucking fuck
And what was I supposed to do?
Get on my feet and applaud?

I don’t know why I always went for older guys
Maybe I saw in you a patriarch
Maybe the lines on your face promised me
A map of my heart
Some may say it was Oedipal
But I wouldn’t know
I have no memories
Of my father

©2020 Sarah Drury