Thursday, January 14, 2010

Penis Envy

I masturbate; words.
I am a poet.

Poetry excites me.
I am passionate
About this art form.

That lobe embedded in my skull
Triggers emotional responses.
Spurred on by chemicals, Estrogen
Serotonin, Testosterone.

The petrol that energizes
My hand in Rhythmic motion,
To manipulate flaccid words,
Into a tumescent phrase.

The anticipation of the
poem as art.
The result of this entire psychic

I can’t finish too quickly,
No pre-mature endings.
Hold it:
What was Mickey Mantles batting
Average in 1963?

Get mind off work.
Relax, refresh,
Take a break.
Tantric poetry.

Words again flow rushing
Through my lobes.
Emotion to logic,
Left to right.

I come;
to the conclusion of the poem.
Is it art?
Only the reader can
Render that judgment.

Reader, please no false reactions,
Did you enjoy the poem?
Well, if I smoked I would surely
Light-up a film-noir cigarette.

It is after all masturbation.
Where I derive singular psychic
And physical pleasure,
A self-indulgence that
I want to share.

So, reader take comfort
In my masculine ways.
Where my orgasmic pleasure
Is only one poem at a time.

Dear reader, enjoy all the
As a multi-orgasmic treat.


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