say fuck in a poem, it's so outdated
like leg-warmers, mullets, similes.
Not that syntax trickery is off the glib list;
a diamond studded sentence structure sparkles on the tongue,
the wingless May bug hasn't won,
the young are warm and dormancy is restless.
Every reader is a guest at your cotillion,
your red red dress is fitted, swishes, flatters.
Twin adjectives are sinfully exposed,
but who knows, they could be better in this matter
than some tucked away and sunless-busted prose.
Back to fuck, I'm bending over,
searching for a better word, one unheard in any literary venue
to describe the wild ride I'd like to give your mind and spirit
with my prowess, up and down and side to side.
Date of Birth:
June 22, 1970
Mipo, The Absinthe Review, Snakeskin, Can We Have Our Ball Back?, Niederngasse, Slow Trains, Word Riot, Snow Monkey, Miller's Pond, Unlikely Stories, etc.
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