After having her shoulders muzzled
and her perfect perineum licked slickly
Perry kneed him in the goolies
with a rapier choice of stressed words
and departed for another party.
Perry had been a frothy drink all his life,
she was a special mixer, bubbly, indefinable,
arty-farty-smarty
relishing her intoxicating effect
she split herself with brandy on him
amused by the way he wilted when she spilt on him
and swelled when she came back on him,
then she washed his ego down his hatch,
it was just no match
for her wet, smile-shielded treachery,
unimpeachable because of its spontaneity.
Dont bring peaches or brandy into it, he would irritatingly intone.
Perry was quite enough for him on her own.
She knew her zingy femme fatale attractions
and never showed her fatal femme infirmities
Some said she had lost a part of herself
but she didn’t care for vulnerability
no rounding or reuniting for Perry
She was very very very
in control of her relations.
She buzzed and tripped through organs, veins and social situations
dished out sore heads, raised libidos
rash impetuosities, bizarre imagination
rendered him to blubber
with her gaiety and flavour,
privileging him
reminding him
of her generous favour……..
not everyone got Perry…….
he should show appreciation.
Then one day he woke up, parched,
sucked at the perineum and found just flat dregs,
tongued smears of a dehydrated stickiness
on the bottom of her fluted glass life.
Perry had run out, empty.
The froth had regressed
to a dirty scum laced with lipstick pink
on the brink of her brim,
and she hadn’t yet exhausted him.
He then acquired a thirst for other drink,
discovered Kir, with vintage Veuve Cliquot,
left Perry,
an empty bottle beside the sink.