THIS IS A POEM


My life is a train wreck of orphans on Super Bowl Sunday.
Neither Pepsi Cola nor John Travolta can save me now,
And capicola just makes me frown.

This gauntlet, this constant, fist fight for sex
Has rendered my cobalt cock
Withered and mirthless.

And these table scrap handjobs you feed me
Won't keep my soul awake
During this midnight of my desperation.

All my attempts at intercourse with produce
have been to no avail.

Alas, you cast me aside like the post-coital cum of a deflated condom left to coagulate in a puddle of futility beneath the harsh sun of reality.



This ejaculate is my death cry.