So…yes…and…what, words abbreviated because they are words and not people interacting, left alone too long with plastic keys and feely diodes, reform of this late night lust isn’t going to happen lest the h-bomb-mile-high mushroom finds a new relevance, like blows his cock off, remember when that was the norm, no, his dad used to talk of hiding under desks and wearing dog tags to class, in this day we look at panties and wonder if the commies really had the balls, guess not.

       Shoot it if it moves
       I say, you don’t know who’s
       A poet or priest

Jerking-off is the closest I cum to God, he says and means it, wanting to ask her if it bothers her or turns her on to be imagination fodder, best not to talk of those things her hypocritical puritanical upbringing sings over the tepid coffee and stale rapport, so, he says, everyone likes the idea of someone getting off to the idea of themselves, and she’s put at rest, at last, it’s not a menace, just humanity ringing its bells because that’s what we have to do, or else. He’s not so bad, she thinks, for a friend.

He swells,

       girth before age, she
       smells a rat, crouching behind
       truth become messy.

It’s ok, she says, everyone’s fine, no alarm needed and I’ve heeded the harm that’s been done before, ignore it and it passes, we can still be…he’s stopped listening. Definitely screw women who gets wet in the tousled bed of verse.

- david e. oprava

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