Writing poems

about prostitutes

and imaginary sex

is better than

writing about smoking pot

and jerking off


the beer does

get an assist

in the delusion

and the reality is dampened

by—well—the reality


and the ideas always

seem to rise

when I’m on the toilet

without access to a pen

which I’m sure the critics will

attribute to latent homosexuality


but I can’t explain

other’s obsession

with the path my penis takes

nor will I even bother

to attempt comtemplation


I’m perfectly content

to mind my own affairs

and let others pursue

their own paths

but that isn’t enough


I can sing the praises

of Sir Charles;

that crazy son of a bitch

that checked out decades ago


I’m looking at

the Dalai Lama

or at least

a picture of him

on the cover of a book

and I’m feeling blissful

as there’s a distant sound

of orchestral pops in the air



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allets's picture

Naked Black Men

I gotta find that site!  


I heard all that. - slc  



georgeschaefer's picture

hope its everything you're

hope its everything you're looking for.