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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this one made me laugh out loud
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