He is a poet
oh I love him
he is the best
other poets suck but this one is special
I am going to fuck him and fuck him and fuck him some more
then he is going to write his poems about me
and my sweet tight wet fly trap punani
when I hear his poems,
I do kegels like a tawain hong kong call girl,
no wait,
a straight up thailand hooker
I could be professional ping pong player with the power in my poon
so when he takes me to meet his mother,
I am going to call her a bitch to her face
then I am going to suck his dick,
till he doesn’t care anymore
then he will write me the best poems
lovely poems of anger
then I am going to fuck all his friends
just a little though
just enough to piss him off,
but not enough to feel like I am lying
when I say they don’t matter to me
like he does.
And when I tell him they all had smaller dicks
I will giggle.
Then he will write me the most scintillating poems of betrayal
Then I am going to blow all of his money on red shoes.
Flats, pumps, heals, stilettos, platforms, boots, sneakers,
flip flops, and bags, clutches, purses, day bags, night bags,
sequined bags, lather bags, patchwork bags, denim bags.
And eating out, I don’t have time to cook,
it takes a long time to find a new shade of red
when you closets fool of crimson,
burgundy, dark pink, maroon,
fire engine and candy apple footwear.
Then he will have to work.
And he write the most incredible first hand accounts
of the dreariness of surviving the monotony of the 9-5 machine,
and he will seem such the eloquent blue collar working man
and to get through that monotony
it will take excitement,
so we will enjoy drugs,
and gambling,
and orgies,
and he will write the most amazing poems about excess,
nihilism, self destruction and addiction,
I will tease him till he’s crazy.,
and I will drug him till he’s stoned,
and I’ll make him drink till he passes out,
then you can bet I am going to that orgy by myself.
And when the cops find the drugs
he will write me the most incredible poems
about being processed by a totally inhuman system
and he will know that from then on he will be watched as a criminal
and he will write paranoid poems about demons and satellites
and he will scribe the most wonderful pieces of art
concerning forced sodomy and homosexual coercion.
And then he will loathe me.
He will hate me furious.
He will despise me.
He will consider me with pure contempt.
And so he will scribe for me such epics of glorious murder
that I will simple crush the plastic balls in my vagina
with such excitement
that even the taiwan hong kong call girls
would be deafened by the big bang ping pong pop!
It would baffle even the greatest scientist!
Whose child, incidentally, I would happen to be carrying at the time,
because honestly, lets face it,
there is no future in poetry.