I’m jacking off in a latticed waffle pattern
prison window light, scolded and sunken,
I write about reality, make it a legend
of virility, I’ve had sex and my penis is perfect
admittedly, it curves pleasantly and heaves
occasionally with passion heft and dignity,
unless it’s fatigued, inaction sickness
prescribes pornography, only a temporary
animated opiate, take two and call me again
in the morning, you useless husk, dry cracking
skin at the edges, my girlfriend
passes out sometimes, drunk on vodka
I provide with my accident, not satisfaction.
Drizzle on me sizzle, weeping I’ll be
in a magma puddle, straining my mind
and spirit both, so I’ve nothing more,
I wish that I had an explanation
for myself, call it an excuse if you want
but I beg no pardon, my bare back
under lash pleading punishment, something
tangible with a lesson I could take,
at face value, a simple hobbling
like I had once, correcting an arrogant
streak I selfsame felt, like I’d get laid right
quick, not years later in a fumbling
drunken mess, of which I was
the villain, getting fat on pop tarts
and white bread ham sandwiches.
So in a way I was rescued, and rescuer
it seems, so today together acting,
we will achieve greatness, standing as mine
a chaos emerald, beautiful and lovely
though tortured and blind at the same time,
moving in waves of motion fluid
surging up over, learning the patterns
of each other, we live in greater harmony
and love expanding exponentially
with the in between time, not wasted
space, smooth setting a place
for us to sit, watching the flame move
downwards, staying constant sloughing
material off, to the sides in ripples.