it is perilously difficult
to imagine such a woman
deriving enjoyment from
anything Priapian.
And, believe me:
I've tried.

And (due in part to the
suicidally nasal intonation of her
every word) I think my endeavor can be
listed as quite gallant:
I stared at her thumbs
and strived to put them in unlawful places
(you now, all the usual
sadian orifices); I
bent her legs and held steady her calves
whilst she swallowed her might
and a pint of miralax; and in my
utterly depraved ennui, I even
smeared her cock-warmer with
garlic butter and had some poor sap
kneel to clean her off.

and then I was nearly ill all over the black-topped science desk
so I stopped.

I suppose it is difficult to be
sensual whence unable to see ones' own seat of desire
merely by looking down.

the fungus of one pleasure hides
the rusty instrument of another
(and here I imagine her stuffing key
into oily lock and
opening up to noodle-tainted air, to
fluffy long grey cat hair matting
chewed up furniture which seems to be upholstered
in clothen vomit.
She puts out a Fancy Feast
for said molting pussy
and uses her unfortunate thumbs to
abuse the crusty keypad of
the microwave.

And I think, yes:
I can see her moaning
mouth stuffed to bursting in her
non-too-exquisite submission to
"gourmet" chocolate).

This is why God damns gluttony:
because the glorification of cuisine checks
and presides over religious fervor in which
"allelujah" may be found in a pinto of canned pudding or
decadent treacle tart; because it
gives all ecstasy to food, there by
decreasing libido and
inhibiting monkey-making
(which god is also indecisive about).