B. E. Smith

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 6, 2013

eat at Joe's bio

 

B. E. Smith is a freelance writer from Utah. In addition to essay and article publications, his stories and poems have appeared in anthologies and magazines such as Gutter Eloquence, Zygote in My Coffee, Poetry Super Highway, The Legendary, Static Movement, and the delinquent. Currently, he lives in Salt Lake City and is writing a memoir.
 

 —

 

Graduate Studies in 16th Century British Literature

women gasp

shriek back and cover themselves

when men look at

their breasts—

that deep furrow of cleavage—

as if they didn’t understand

the game:

a Spaniard

looking down from a woman’s bustier

and

finding her chastity belt locked

                        thereby knew
                        the key to England must be hidden somewhere
                        in that bulging brassiere.

 

 

Gastronomy Enim Cogitation

 

After dinner

and we had quaffed

many a fermented elixir,

she sprawled naked

back from the edge of the bed.

Kneeling between her legs

and

as my head moved forward,

a loud

vibrating

baritone belch

erupted from my chest

and echoed through the bedroom.

“Oooooh,” she said squirming.

She chuckled and asked,

“Could you do that again?”

 

 —

 

Iridescence in My Coffee

 

Warm brown

water tumbled out the bottom of the filter basket

thick steamy drops of soft water.

The decanter filled

while the coffee maker moaned and sighed

gasped.

A long-standing, frigid lover

I lived with

couldn’t reach orgasm.

She didn’t like coffee

the smell of it drove her out of the house.

With a fogged mirror and window

I found her in the tub,

“The sex therapist said that if I trickled warm water over my clitoris,

it might stimulate me to orgasm,” she said.

I watched the water tumble out the faucet

fat, soft drops

a liquid probe caressing her.

When her divorce papers went through

when she had shaken her x-husband out of her head

when I had helped her reach orgasm,

she told me she didn’t need a man in her life anymore

she was a new woman of a sudden.

I moved to a basement apartment

plenty of sunlight

and an old boiler sighing and groaning

through the wall behind my headboard.

She spends most of her time at home alone now.

I prefer to sit in the breakfast nook

with my coffee

watching people pass the window

drinking nearly three pots a day.

 

 —

 

Abstinence in Absentia

 

Two legs diverged in a bed

spread wide as apple blossom orchards.

Be it trimmed or a grassy patch of shaggy bushes

either leg had launched as many ships

and sunk the same.

I looked down both as lust would allow

to the confluence of war and peace.

Choosing the left or

the right leg

would make all the disturbance.

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