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Breasts PM Mooney

From

The Ampersand Review, Vol. 1


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They don't make me salivate, not those television titties as round as teacups magnified to perverts' dreams hard as over-inflated volleyballs taut as canvas sails in high winds. Pushed up, built up tyrants never worth a touch but lodged in every face like a hood used in water-boarding. Media goddess, you can't torture me with that partially-hydrogenated image. I want a real feast of tear-dropped flesh, ones to hold and massage through fingers ones pliable, mysteriously soft; ones to move in the movement of the act, to fill a mouth from hard to soft palate to enjoy with tongue, lips and teeth to take me from this moment to my first. You're not an image; you have substance beyond a sequence of flickering molecules. You glow like firelight against granite; in deep night, you're meant to be painted in white and rust on cave walls.


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PM Mooney has been writing poems most of his life but was recently reborn, thanks to a woman. He is a poet, a distance runner, an English sheepdog owner, a positive force, and a college professor. His literary interests include Raymond Queneau, Marcel Proust, and Henry Miller. He is madly in love with a woman who lives a continent away. She has convinced him that time and distance are illusions.

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www.ampersand-books.com

"Breasts," by PM Mooney  

From The Ampersand Review, Vol. 1 PM Mooney

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