THE ONLY THING I HUMP IS THE SWEATY, JOWLY FACES OF EVERY ONE OF YOUR MOTHERS!

I like the rhythm of this poem. Especially the first two lines or stanzas or whatever those are called. Jane would know.

Wrath humps everything, you know. Pillows and the mailman's leg are just the tip of the iceberg. Add to that list trees, terrified Catholic schoolgirls, indignant meter-readers and the entire produce aisle at the local grocery chain and you will have a better understanding.

I love this poem. I'm sensing a mortality theme in your latest work. It's cold. I need a sweatervest.

Hehe, nice rhythm. I like the subject matter too. Feels like a tantrum, well-earned, followed by the stillness of knowing that you can't change it all anyway.
Wrath humps his pillow? In my head it's always the mailman's leg. Go figure.

Huzzah! I loved this one from the moment you read it to me over the phone! The rhyme scheme is terrific and the subject material rocks. This one is undoubtedly going into Jane's famed packet, this I predict. And Wrath of Cthulu will probably print it on the pillow he humps every night, whispering your name through his tears of lonliness. The very thought moves me on a completely spiritual level.