At least I’ve got a sense of humor
and there’s always a place in America.
I burn Anarchy through a sphere,
spraying slugs in the mainline.
Who knows what horrors we’ll
unravel in the budding husk
of a phallus,
the lascivious ascension that follows.
I am still trying to untangle
a portrait from my own obtuse walls,
my throat full of hell and nicotine.
Malt liquor shines bright upon
the legs expansive boulevards.
His strangled circumstance has left
his spine raked clean,
hovering through the fog
of dreams, my enflamed lips
tangle of muscle
into a Venus craving release.