the
unholy
pink
hole
that you
pump your
pompous pole
protrusion
into
promises
not
to get
unglued.
he's just
this
dude.
who
looks like
sex.
musk
and cigarettes.
a different
set
of
should
expects
are erect.
I reject
his
wrecked effects
and wretched
affections.
I switch
the subject
and interject
an
eject.
at this
junction
I jot
sexmusk mister
sinster
an obituary.
this bitch
buries
the
barely believable
lies
that reside
in skin
hammocks.
lower your
pole
and find
a new
hole.
