SEX AND HELZINGLER. (STRONG LANGUAGE)

[dadio]

Ingrid sits and thinks. Inhales. The grey smoke
Rising. The cigarette held in her hand.
She moves it away, rests it on the back

Of the chair. Her black and red checked dress comes
Just above her knees, she sits with one leg
Crossed over the other. She’s waiting

For Helzingler. She sips her cocktail through
The straw; allows the juice to sit on her
Tongue momentarily to savour, to

Allow the full enjoyment to linger.
Helzingler will debate on his book on
Modern art and the last operas of

Wagner. She’d prefer a good suck and fuck.
But whatever comes, she muses, drawing
On the cigarette, gazing at her short

Plain fingernails. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Her brother Karl told her such tales of the
War and trenches and the loss of comrades

And blood and guts and heads and limbs blown off.
She uncrosses her leg. Pins and needles.
She rubs her thigh. Helzingler will sing from

Gotterdammerung and point out boring
Long passages of his book and she will
Look and listen to his baritone and

Smile and not moan or groan. She hopes he will
Concede to sex and the games she likes to
Play and she doesn’t mind if he hums some

Wagner as he shafts her good and proper
Beneath the Otto Dix print on the wall
Above the creaky bed. She exhales smoke,

Waits for Helzingler to come, and sips her
Drink. She sits and waits; her thoughts sexual
And otherwise bubbling to her mind’s brink.