Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Glass

It is getting too crowded down here.
Drenched in condensation
hot, plump breasts squeak like wet rats
against the glinting, purple glass.
Full lips, fat with blood
grate on pearly razors
Dry tongues claw like sandpaper at neighbours’ shirts.
Clothes are melting.
Toes, elbows, shoulders fill every nook
Fresh pinstripes and pipedreams are
thrust     
from the depths relentlessly
Salt burning raw skin.
Bare fingers have only the space to tickle the polished surface.

The spectators fill their lungs
they stare down
trousers fat       bulging
sweat sparking from clenched palms
trusting their own creation to hold fast
to protect.
Beards matted with bubbling saliva
and fuming aftershave
Some press their faces to the glass
smearing drenched tongues over the writhing mass
contained.
Pleasure ripples, shudders, erupts
those below wince, clench bloodstained eyes

We are waiting.
    a crack    
        just one

Have patience ladies.

© Natalie Moores


No 10 and the glass ceiling: token gestures and hot air
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Natalie is a 21yr old MA student writer from Manchester. She currently sells cheese for a living, but is determined to make it as a writer.