A fucking pageantry of pulp -
is your manhood
or, a thorn?
Scorn between a woman's overtly
hot thighs; over worn and foppish.
Youths spent around clumsy fingers;
men (or so they tell me) do not linger…
An organ, unorganized.
Length, and size, and shape, and matter,
or matter of factley,
it glides, in and out, like a ribbon, untied
from a girls hair, it is the facet, of a man
sighing, such sweet kisses across my breasts,
it is lovely ugliness. Brittle lies unfolded
to turn creamy girls bitter.
In the moonlight
my tongue tangles
itself around the
shadows of your
penis. I give you
this. Let you take
my mouth, and hold
you there, like
the deepest poetry.
I am, a poor judge perhaps? In my
condemning, or my cajoling of it.
Young, as I was, when I found myself
misunderstanding it; fascinated by it -
small, and watching my father urinate.
Young, and watching a boy, cultivate fate
in such a timeless way. It had been done
before, it would be done again.
A pageantry of punishment -