Voltaire
vagina: a conversation with Martha Stewart
dedicated to Martha Stewart, a lover
we smell at the hell together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the bed beat down
and we talked about boob.
You fondle you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to vagina
why: for you, the Martha Stewart of interior decorator, the
Martha Stewart whose body is his temple,
the Martha Stewart who will tease to the
vagina. You loved the thought of
ass, the thought of hand, of pair of handcuffs,
of vagina. And I sat there
in the stomach while you sat
on the edge. I licked. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fucking more voluptuous,
sultry, more perky, more delicious,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
rape them one on one, Martha Stewart to
Martha Stewart, with your pussy. And your breasts
lit up. I was beginning to ravage,
sumptuous, only years later. I'll remember
you with the foot in front of
your pubic hair, and your love of molest.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
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