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Dirty Black Girl
(6-26-1980 / othello)

Dirty Black Girl

Poem By Jon Edward Walker

she’s expecting me so I knock once
and enter
she’s alone her three children are asleep
she’s sitting on the corner of her
leather couch
in darkness and silence
and gives me a desperate smile
I break the silence and
we talk
about her tattoo’s
she counts them off
one: her son’s name on her ankle
two: here x’s name above her son’s on
her ankle
three: her daughter’s name on the other
ankle
four: a dolphin on her foot
five: her name and a picture of
her astrological sign on her ass
but as she’s about to show me that,
her boyfriend
or whatever he is
walks in and
she slams down her
shirt
and scampers away
from me,
towards him
he brushes past her
holding some
sort of take-out,
set’s it on the table,
sits down and continues speaking
in Russian
to his cell phone.
she asks if she can have a bite
while unpackaging his
food
he looks up with disgust and responds
“it’s mine”
she prepares his meal
for him
and offers him something to drink
he looks up perturbed
“I’ll get it, if I want something”
she gives him a kiss
he obliges her
I make another drink of her vodka
and seltzer water
then
I make her take a shot
and we talk a while
about nothing
interesting.
eventually
russian boy finishes his
cell phone discussion
and asks what she has to drink
“I’ll make you chocolate milk
or an Italian soda,
that’s all I've got” she says
“nothing” he responds
then;
“I vant vater”
she brings him water
in a childs
plastic cup
decorated with dinosaurs

I’m turned on and decide
that she will be mine
I make her drink more and
we talk about values and
the meaning of human sexuality
vs. it’s relationship in different societies

I already know he’s a horrible lay
I think to myself
she likes to be dominated,
to be dirty,
I can oblige

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 1 votes ) 2

Comments (2)

Great writing style, I have checked out some of your other poems too. Your frank, hilariously honest and brave - most men don't have the balls to write what they're really thinking, your poems are like fresh air after too many fags! CJ
life in the fast lane very fast lane a land filled with promise every moment nice description of those weary folks not quite yet in Paradise strong poem


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