A Story of Vaginal Friction (or the Superego Cometh)

.[1]

Jazz that diaphragm candy man your liver
nougat center solar plexus rot foul how?
For hours spent in my [nether] heathers
juicy lips switched to teeth eat meat
gag the good way down--feel me roll shiver
draw it up the ravenous void of your bedroom
[hunting/gathering/taking/fucking]

in which I have lived a spasmodic muscle-popper
wearing a mewing mustached kitty-groper
as a pelty-puss of purplish jelly.


[2]

I won't allow the [sexy?] cancer in your eyes to switch on
a night light relax damn ribs with your exposed
inhibitions characteristic of:

guilt led grenade ejaculation shattering one's
aggressive manna-dreams since puberty his penis
has been a vessel of neglect like a turtle's head
endlessly waiting for approach in the wilderness
then inward goes like a row of arcade hedghogs
we pop on the skulls with mallets

[your pretty head is so scared of violence].

[3]

I want to be a bad [girl] habit the passive syringe
oiled faithful lying in bed a mechanism
of concealment or an argument
on self-protection.

I want a man-boy between my legs
the way to an obsessionable neurosis

where everything is exaggerated--
and quite pornographic.

.
.
this is not poetry. this is not art. this is (rectal) discharge (anarchy)