Thursday 26 November 2009

#64 - Slam Dunk My Love

O gangle-limbed object of my pane-misting lust,
dribble me against the polished planks
of a dirty metaphor and don't stop long enough

to wonder what it all achieves, when you really
think about it. Poets have a grand tradition
of evoking death to get sex - and in joining

that tradition, we both achieve a technical
sort of immortality, cold ballskin against
your effort-rouged cheeks, ten seconds left

on the cock. Sorry, clock.

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