Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

The Glass Ceiling

by Natalie Moores

It is getting too crowded down here.
Drenched in condensation
hot, plump breasts squeak like wet rats
against the glinting, purple glass.
Full lips, fat with blood
grate on pearly razors
Dry tongues claw like sandpaper at neighbours’ shirts.
Clothes are melting.
Toes, elbows, shoulders fill every nook
Fresh pinstripes and pipedreams are
from the depths relentlessly
Salt burning raw skin.
Bare fingers have only the space to tickle the polished surface.
The spectators fill their lungs
they stare down
trousers fat and bulging
sweat sparking from clenched palms
trusting their own creation to hold fast
to protect.
Beards matted with bubbling saliva
and fuming aftershave
Some press their faces to the glass
smearing drenched tongues over the writhing mass
Pleasure ripples, shudders, erupts
those below wince, clench bloodstained eyes
We are waiting.
    a crack     
        just one
Have patience ladies.

Added: 18.03.2011

Judges' comments on this poem


I like the anger in this poem, but it's a little worthy for my taste.