You perverts deem her a virgin vision of
stroking. I see not the value
of the pen-stroke, the prick-stroke.
Tongue wagging, drool-sprayed hands
grope for her, but she resists.
The beauty there is lost
in the grunts and pants
about the ankles of chest-thumpers
grasping in vain for a feel on the page.
Tender flesh, the picture, cannot be felt
or change through the screen of paper.
But lasciviously you persist: a reproduction
borne of hedonism, not love.
My — what a beauty she was.
Form — flawless. Heart — golden. Prose — beautiful.
Still. But now she reposes on a
wrinkled page, yellowed with age and sweat and your strain,
(your stain), genesis of spilled seed.
You holf her aloft only to size her up,
a self-serving firehose of recycled sputum
directed at her. Sticky soak-rags pale
next to the pale skin provoking the stroke, the coax.
The rag rests in the trashcan,
the other secreted away for another go-round,
chaste against the deepest probles of your thrusting
pen. Is it repoduction? Yes and no.
Facsimile, a child scribbling, masturbation,
you bastard, you pseudofucker,
you scholar.
Tags: Poetry
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