I see you from the bar
as I pull a pint,
under the table
rubbing yourself gently,
more vigorously
whilst thinking of
how you’ll have your way
with me, forgetting
your own stale drink.

I keep my hand firm
on the pipe,
from the corner of my eye
watching you watching me.
You like how I
pull it gently, don’t you?
You like observing
the firmness of my wrist,
the way I handle the metal.

I pay little mind
to what you think,
knowing you’ll toss out
your filthy words anyway
for the woman refusing
to supply the eyes
that you crave:

whore, wanton, wasted.

Instead, I find
better play
for this bored soul:
flashes of your carcass
across my mind.
Blade in hand,
my limb of silver,
I’ll tackle your dragon
with precision,
severing neck, its length,
from body undeterred.
I’ll dodge each
hot shot, evade bites –
shieldmaiden willing
to fight.

But for now
you’ll tug yourself
vigorously, messily,
ignorant to what faces you
in this bored woman
finishing the pulling of a pint.

Feeble lizard, naïve man,
I’ve faced many a drunken fool
with warmer breath.

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