Wet Dreams and Poetry

Poetry is like pink bubble gum stuck on downtown sidewalks,

smoggy gloomed skies of dirty browns, greys, overcast grime in clouds,

a ripped hymen, pierced bloody red with cherry JELL-O Pudding goo,

tickled armpits, frenzied childish laughter, giggles cuddled in guts,

a lover’s hairy animal-like arms, chest, back, warm wax ripping skin bare.

Poetry is like a ménage a trois, two pairs of lips available to suck you ripe,

masturbation, gentle moans and mmmmm’s drowned out by splattering rain,

a backache massaged by calm hands, rubbing shoulders to ass, ass to spine,

two full rounded breasts filled with blood and milk, heart and body.

Poetry is like a balding man, receding hairlines like sand and waves, grainy

shells shattered against California shorelines, man hungry sharks, woman

hungry men exposing themselves to children in playgrounds and school yards,

small cocks baked in scorching simmering sunshine burning flesh to brown.

Poetry is like used toilet paper glued-stuck beneath high-heeled shoes, dirty

public restrooms wet from piss stained yellow tile, snot plastered green against

cold hard floors, tears poured out onto toilet seat covers and sanitary napkins,

tampons drenched heavily by poems that encourage wet dreams.

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