prime

blank sheets

a dot in a beryl jar, I sip a
strong mash in a beveled
glass- here sways a

goddamn poet with
nothing to write about as past
musae sit taxidermied
and
mounted in a fit of prose several
years ago. now
in this aroused
stupor, I can only think about a
woman’s
legs greeting the ceiling in a
passion
pose. hound.

poetry dies in sexual prime cause
all I want is women, all I think
about are women and yet, I’m left
with blank sheets rigid in
carriage.

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