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Marjorie Razorblade

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Naked in a Hotel Room

Lets order room service
Should we ever find ourselves naked in a hotel room
I'll lie here and watch you eat
Bide my time
Keep myself warm
Keep myself entertained
And not with the mini bar or warm white towels
I'm waiting

I'm in need of something else babe
Have you finished eating yet?

Something the towels were invented for

Something

Worth me being wet

Marjorie Razorblade 2007





My Perfect Sunday.

It might be worth it if I now mention:
I do not shop in DFS on Sundays
Please don't take this as any form of rejection
Its just that my Sundays are too precious and furniture shopping with you my love,
Is really not my intention.
Oh I can meet your mother and be charming and polite
And secretly I'll smile and think
Of what I'll do to her darling son tonight
Another thing I recommend is we do not shop for matching crockery
Beware of women who want to buy napkins, co-ordinated plates
and gnomes for the miniature rockery
I'm just not like that
My Sundays are too precious
I would rather be lying in bed with you
Counting your fingers licking your stomach sucking you there, and marvelling at the wonder of human engineering,
Its not that I'm particular
It's just that I'd rather be with you
A fact I find quite endearing.
You simply are a work of art, the world outside is not a beautiful enough place to keep you without hanging its head for shame
The Garden of Eden would have been a fitting place for you
Should that harlot not cast it asunder
Nothing I could do on a Sunday would be good enough

Except you sliding inside me

And really,
is it any wonder?

Marjorie Razorblade 2007

Comments: Childless Sunday couples: DFS, The Telegraph, almost-but-not-quite-matching ski-jackets and Timberland Boots, visiting the in laws with flowers to make that 'first good impression'(the rest of the time they can whistle, but this comes much later) roast dinner at the pub- (matching food) glass of white wine probably, home, he watches football, she makes tea and feigns interest in the offside rule, bed, read, do crossword, lights out, go in different directions to work, repeat, end, start all over again. Ooh cynical.
My perfect Sunday: Wake up with someone wonderful sleep all day in between other things, which needs little imagination to visualize. What the fuck are Sundays for? Getting on your knees in one way or another I say.

 
 
 

Strumpet Call

 

(This is rude- I hope you're sitting comfortably )

By the way this is all made up off the cuff stuff – it’s coming straight out my mouth in real time-comments and edits included, sometimes poetry isn’t worth thinking about, its just worth venting- remember this is the Red Room and anything goes- wooee this is going to be messy, I can just feel it…….you ready?

 

 

 

Strumpet Call

“Call of the Strumpet “

 

The Call of the Strumpet heralds the new whore!

Its seems a lot louder than it once did before

No sex for one year and now I want more

Watch out…I’m coming

Don’t answer your door

 

Instead of a no make up a bare mouth I paint my lips red

My ideal day (with you)? consists of much lying in bed

Its chuffing exciting as waist down I’m not dead!

Should I masturbate more often (?)

Or take cold showers instead?

 

Lock up your husbands, beloved first born

Uncles and Brothers all give me the horn

Should I be good? I really am torn…

But then fuck it why should I?

She says looking at Porn…

 

(Ha this is great fun)

 

The Strumpet Call re-stimulates my sexual wit

I’m grateful for smut and an arse that won’t quit

It’s a sexual rebirth from a dried up old twit

A pompous old cunt and poetry full of shit
 

(nice.Well done Marj)

 

The need for the call is probably superfluous (oh, fabulous word.)

I Should be more tactful and considerably virtuous

Yeah right that’s all pointless!

I don’t giggle and laugh

We’ll fuck in the shower

And then fuck in the bath

Fuck in the kitchen and shag in the hall

Fuck up the sofa and fuck up the hall

And if your no good I’ll tell everyone

And then I’ll add in the comments: He took (took/ takes?- doesn’t matter it’s all bad news either way) it up the bum

 

I’m kidding babydoll don’t get all arsey!

I wouldn’t be so wicked

I’m just too classy

(Stop laughing at that last line.)

 heheh. My God that’s so tacky

(tacky…)? No don’t use that word- it’s…it’s…it’s well, ‘tacky’

 

This is straight off the cuff

I’m not thinking what I’m writing

I’m typing with my muff (arg god I hate that word its so 1987. .It rhymes woman use it.)

Owee that’s just icky

I’ve lost the CTRL ALT Delete

The space bar is all sticky (class)

Yes lets make chit chat

“ Hmm yes the weather was nice”

Less chat more fuckey

And take my advice

If you can come once sugar tits/dollface/babydoll  (insert any cack-handed nickname for something sexual here)

You can always come twice

 

Hahahah fuck me sideways I’m such a strumpet

(continue)

It’s a good job I’m brainy as well as some crumpet

Don’t take this too literally I’m not blowing my trumpet

Just polishing my bugle while trying to hump it.

 

(heheheh heheh hee hee heh falls off chair laughing my arse off- yes I know only an idiot laughs at themselves, its amusing is all- stop reading the comments and read the bloody poem before I forget what I was doing….ah yes…Call of the Strumpet.. 3, 2, 1… you’re back in the room)

Wooee baby The Strumpet Call beckons

Go as long as you like I can come in three seconds

“She won’t put out mate” Well that’s what he reckons

But he should have tried a bit harder

And pushed harder and grew a cock and used it

If it was here now I would fucking abuse it

 

(with scissors heheh cackle cackle)

 

But the Call of the Strumpet knows no human bounds

But I’m not gagging for action with just anyone or doing the rounds

I’m brimming with slutdom and what’s more of a curse

Is it’s waiting for you (nice turn around to the last stanza)

To pull out of reverse

 

The Call of the Strumpet alive I suppose

It’s a side of my personality that no-body knows (italic for understatement of the century)

And no-one can tell when I’m wearing my clothes

That its not just something

In your trousers that grows

Its lust

But also its Love…

Tied up with feeling

And heartfelt gestures in filthy yet unalterable, dynamic prose….

 

 

Marjorie Razorblade 26/3/07

 

 

Comments: Well...what can I say? My fingers ache, my brain is all out of smut. Time to call it a day when the last lines turn into something else. Love is always on my mind, occasionally smut creeps in and keeps me on my toes but Love always seeps back, usually at the ending of a poem. It’s a permanent fixture, no amount of smut can keep Love at bay forever. I’m more for Love than lust any day- hence I always give it a capital ‘L’,  call me old fashioned (yes, do call me old fashioned while I’m wearing a corset and holding a whip Sir I dare you).

Anyway I hope you enjoyed that. I know I did. I’m drinking coffee and having a cigarette. It was that good for me.

Off the cuff stuff is alarming at times- depends what mood you’re in, today was ‘one of those days’ when I’ve been thinking a lot, not sleeping much and wishing I could be repeating something which made my heart and my head spin.

I’m going to stop talking now…it’s seeping back again. Again like any other poem- no editing allowed- it’s the law of the land… and I’ve got more Love brimming up inside of me. than you could ever understand……………….