Schafstiefelgeister

He spoke no French
and she no German
and so they met
on Crescent St.,
where les anglais come out to play.
They shared expensive drinks
and broken English.

His speech was clipped
like boots on cobblestones.
Behind his shades
he squinted
ice blue.

He was on a modern pilgrimage
to taste the base and carnal world
before a smug and holy matrimony
to the buxom Freda.

She smiled
and wondered if the hair
behind his fly
might be as blonde as that
upon his head.

So when they tired
of halting conversation,
she went with him.

He took her roughly.
A steel hard god,
the blood rang in his ears
like a mighty hammer
as he sank
into her blackness
and re-emerged,
slick and shiny,
only to sink again.

Après le déluge,
she tried to hold him
pink within her mouth.
She gently rolled him with her tongue
as he softened and grew small.
But it embarrassed him.
He thought of Freda
gagging.
But most of all
he hated shrinking
to mere humanity,
vulnerable
between her teeth.