Writing poems
about prostitutes
and imaginary sex
is better than
writing about smoking pot
and jerking off
the beer does
get an assist
in the delusion
and the reality is dampened
by—well—the reality
and the ideas always
seem to rise
when I’m on the toilet
without access to a pen
which I’m sure the critics will
attribute to latent homosexuality
but I can’t explain
other’s obsession
with the path my penis takes
nor will I even bother
to attempt comtemplation
I’m perfectly content
to mind my own affairs
and let others pursue
their own paths
but that isn’t enough
I can sing the praises
of Sir Charles;
that crazy son of a bitch
that checked out decades ago
I’m looking at
the Dalai Lama
or at least
a picture of him
on the cover of a book
and I’m feeling blissful
as there’s a distant sound
of orchestral pops in the air
Naked Black Men
I gotta find that site!
.
I heard all that. - slc
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