Every 'Woman' I See, Who Does This, It Can'T But Help Her Moore Poem by James McLain

She was vaguely, yet familiarly relaxed, 'unawares
of some soft Mel Gorme music on the radio
and the occasional sounds of someone
moving around in and out of the room.
Hers was a head spinning slightly.
From the last shot was it kind.
Helplessly hot and never excited, yet crazed.
He has this amazing ability to get into your mind
and almost 'play' you like a 'Woman's' musical instrument.
Trying to get you up, 'but not wanting to move....
Understood your every need.. your every feeling.
And the amazing ability to get deep inside of your mind.
Deciding that the best next thing,
was just to close her eyes and relax.
She trusted him and watched as he,
pushed a white enameled cart that looked like
some kind of hospital equipment.
It had a 4-foot rod mounted on the side
and hanging from it was a large red rubber bag,
bulging as if it held a gallon of water.
It was so full that the top was slightly brimming over
with some kind of white suds.
It had a piece of tubing extending from it
that was it's self connected
to a large red rubber tube about 3 feet long
with a small slit on the side of the tip.
Every 'Woman' who saw this
shuttered as they realized
this was a hospital of high volume building
for giving large volume enemas to patients.
The thick soapy water will help the colon tube to pass
more easily up into your tummy.' Said, he.
'Why do you have to control me so completely? ...
You won't even let me keep control of my bodily functions! ',
Secretly melting...anticipation building.
Whatever the cause,
she only knew that she was helplessly in love with this man
and she was equally sure that he loved her unconditionally.
OH... AH.H.... no..Doctor stop..but...please don't ever quit.
feeling the blast of vexatious fluid, jet deep within her.
and this was the one retentive, concurring theme.
that could cause her to totally lose control of her mind.
A self restrained, 'prisoner of love.
And she was sure that Poetry would keep her that way...
for the rest of her life.
The planet revolves, guiding lights, are the days of our lives.

Is It Poetry