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| The Poetry of Nicholas Hancock The Poet of Despair Published by The British Hancock Society with the permission of the author. |
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| LOVE IN A PORTAKABIN He paces the portakabin floor and weaves the seconds into days dictating a letter to Black & Mays about the machine for Number Four. Pausing above the Walters goose, he's poking his ballpoint in and out - ends up 'Yours truly' with a shout and sips at a can of tropical juice. While she types the address, Miss Walters feels a hand on each breast with practised hold. 'Oh, what is the postal code, Mr Bold?' 'It is L for love with time on its heels. I'm really overcome,' he lies as he overcomes her mild dismay. They clear without word the in/out tray and blotter. He asks, 'How's that for size?' A turn of the key - they draw the blinds; Miss St John upon the desk will dance (but later she'll make a quick advance); the hours are unwoven: time unwinds as tropical juices freely mix. Meanwhile the boss reveals a fold of fat. He reflects: 'Dear Mr Bold, regarding this girl of twenty-six. . .' and climbing the hill of pleasure soon he kicks at a drawer: it opens. 'Jeeze!' the slush fund's revealed to his pumping knees. He swears in her ear, 'I'm over the moon. You're truly the greatest, dear,' he groans. In the cut and thrust of their sexual rites he is winning but still Miss Walters fights her victor with wild and husky moans. She pulls on her panties (no more ants!); they praise themselves wildly - to the skies. He pushes the drawer in hard and sighs. 'Please mail me that letter now,' he pants.
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