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poetry is
sex.
we look back
on all
the young fucks
the bad fucks
& roll our eyes
& think
“what the hell
was i thinking?”
but no matter
how unseemly it was
there is nothing
embarrassing about
the orgasm
the few
fleeting seconds
of bliss
in a lifetime
of struggle
when the
rest of the world
disappears
as we spill
the ink & seed
from our bodies.
- erek smith
