Street Warrior

She's on the prowl,
Dressed to kill,
Showing off her meticulously prepared body.
Sessions in the gym,
Ointments and unguents,
Hundreds a month
She spends on her appearance.
Because
She know what she wants,
And she's going to get it.
And some lucky stud
Will think he's in heaven,
For a night or two.
But then she's off again,
Scouting out the land,
Eyeing up the lads,
Deciding who'll be next
To fall victim to the street warrior.

Twenty-four Seven

A dozen moons
Chronicle the duration of our love.
The seasons come and go,
And so do we.
In each of thirty -- or so --
We play dirty.
Slipping together
Across the bed.
Linen laid loose and free,
Abandoned, like him and me.
Nothing held,
All up front,
And out, and ever available.
For every day's a trial --
Can we keep apart?
The minute particles of our pressing flesh
Tell us we're each a version
Of the other.
Time to reflect --
To catch our second wind?
No, we must,
We want,
We crave
The caress,
The kiss,
The tongue,
The probing of firm flesh --
Again
And always.

Willing

He thinks I'm out cold
But I'm not
And I'm hot.
He plied me with drinks
But now the houseplants
Are sloshed.
Not me.
He thinks I can't tell
That he pulls back the duvet.
I mustn't react
When he places his hand
Gingerly at first,
As if scared of my nakedness,
On my quivering skin.
His confidence increases
And I relish the firm caress
All over me.
Now he's really exploring --
Omigod!
Where'd he learn to do that?
Aah...
Can I keep silent --
Will he know?
Christ, he surely can't...
But he doesn't seem to care
Whether he wakes me or not.
And soon,
As he plunges his magnificent rigidity
Into my willing orifice,
Neither do I.

Angela Hadley works in Hampshire, England. Her most recent credits are her short stories "My Alien" and "Jungle Queen," published by DeathGrip - Speculative Fiction E-Zine, and three poems published by Dream Forge.

Email: Angela Hadley

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