You sit with a post coital cigarette and write everything dirty with the whirling smoke..
Draw a penis with magical heads and little pounding hearts
That would immerse themselves in poetry and not just anal pods..
Or jump at it like a discounted product because it suddenly shines
In the dark with tags of sweat. Swear.
You build globules of grimy, lascivious stories
And crane them on breasts the next to you meet a man..
But it’s the cigarette to blame for all the sex that ink consumes..
It’s this someone there, crept well beneath within, to fill in something..
To make more meaning than the ritualistic words..and see things apart
From what eyes derive...and use something more lubricating
Use green apple condoms
And abbreviate the used wrappers in solitary dust bins.