Stud Cum Slut

Dog. ***

Shady, scrofulous emanations
adjust fuckery attitude connotations

on the blink

Thick Dick: Stripping
the bone.

LoveInaBoX

Botox Fox,
sneering veneers.
drastic plastic,
pinned back ears.

Nipper, tuck cur
bits drip off
as I attempt to
mount her.

Alice –
maid in multiplex:
fake-bake beauty

magnifying this counter
clock-wise
clucking complex.

Slag.

You don’t just stretch me here –
You stretch me here too.

Indicating
with a grubby fingernail
the relevant,
expanded regions of her figure:

she physically punctuated her
podgy proclamation.

I had craved a
feverish public statement.

She did not oblige.

Her cold computer
annotated only scorn and spite.

Cock.

I was the most popular boy in school.

You know how girls talk.

The buttery word spreads
hot legs and dead-wet seas like a

Conqueror, divider –
Cervix choker.

Rooster.

Pretty
needy nine teens – a married man or two,
a whore, a governess and an angel.

Each Judas-kiss betraying
every lover to come back for more.

Brain cramp:
tubular nerves play pins and needle keys,
tinkling the ivory corridor of her ebony rectum.

Afterwards

I defaced my magnificence
with a flathead screwdriver.

If they couldn’t have me,
no one else ever would.

The sickening sabotage of
a profane propeller
spinning sin.

And so, I occur unevenly
dotted.

Boa Constrictor.

The hibernation-child hunkers down
on the naughty-step that baby jesus
carved into my arm

a tantrum, slitting open
nagging instability envelopes.

And the eviler of the two attendees; the older brother.
The quiescent character of potential – petulant and
sulky. He is the desolated psychic rebound
of what could have been.

Swine.

I forage –
for the swarming
seeds of my youth.

Torrid with milky
barely water and musky catmint,
slack sausage and magenta shrimp tads
sour a soup that spurts,

flung –
the flush of blue paradise
rushing down the unprotected neck-hole
U-bend of a thrush-throated skank.

Saint.

I grasp the tin can opener.

I reminisce,
and with the other hand

I turn the pain back
to square

One.

Octpopuss.

Four walls
flanked by dainty Fucklings
wet-nursing the ripping rim.

Extracting septic vaJazzle bungs
with their tiny tweezers.

They gargle with the bedazzled backwash.

Jet spraying the high grade pluck:

The bloodshot-rain simmers
the last snow-capped peak
of inborn innocence

made slush

But for the gum-clung wing
of the guardian angel

Simulating the Son of Man
as an ultimate prototype:
silk-screening blank notes
on which she gently guides,
coaxing to compose
invisible ink enigmas.

Lamb in 8.

Paper weight.
Origami cranes winch –
Lit with the flame of her industrial belief

protecting – proving

love is possible

In my thinker.