This poem was written for an Into the Darkness Late Night Poet Radio Talk Show featuring the artwork of Ivan Albright. This poem is adult in nature, so choose to read accordingly.
Ida Claire, she’d never seen that spot before.
Powderpuff the age away with magic cream,
stuffs a dream; she’s Marylin Monroe for a day.
Absolutely ridiculous, but never boring.
Ida Claire bought herself couture underwear,
silk Kimono flown all the way from Thailand.
She’d had her fill of that one-night businessman
bowing by his too low nightstand.
Ida Claire squirts lemon juice on her dying part,
remembers the priest, his Hail Mary heart,
and the wicker chair still pinches her thighs,
dimpled from all those sinful Our Father sighs.
Ida Claire, the jewels from Sir John still shine,
especially in a darkened shaggy boudoir
after a bottle of aged Bordeaux and a cigar.
He liked to run his crown jewels down her spine.
Ida Claire, the flowers in her vase are pressed,
a present from Albert, the úr from Budapest.
He enjoyed things in squirts, could last for hours.
She’d needed rest between his burgeoning towers.
There is no sleep at night for Ida Claire.
Her days pass in shades of underwear.
Lots of lacy memories fringed with flair
from the many hands that reached in there.