SPURTING SPREE

A blood-filled surge
prompts a spew, but odd timings
saw all down her fleshy drain
and I resumed with banged efforts and permutations
and more squirting of
pulsating jets,
but no news to whisper,
oh, no tidings!
* * * *
Holding back blames,
we saw through ourselves
against the prying eyes
of a curious world.
Many moons saw me trying;
dutifully, secreting and spurting
watery pollen far into the rear
of her corrugated pleasure
driveway as we prayed—
and she implored me softly
in my ear, to bless her with
a kissable baby.

So, this time;
python-like, I layed off
generous gubs of life-paste,
awaiting a throwing up
for a testament.
Yet nothing!
I became pensive, while
she—depressed—took ill.
Doctor scribbled a number of
tests, saying she’ll be fine
and I just hoped so.

We returned a plethora of results.
She’s not happy, was all I
understood; she burned for a baby
badly.
* * * *
He stared at us in the eye,
alternating glances between us,
and said:
‘Congrats, man, she took in six
weeks ago.’
* * * *
Baby-making is not a piece of cake.

Written by: Torty Abasi Tortivie
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson