My dreams
consistent and horribly vivid
having a faint theme of cunnilingus
leave me sprawled out under soft sheets
twisting my pelvis
in anyway that feels good and dirty.
It has been the only sensation
my body allows me
so sometimes I don't take my pills
so I can enjoy it a little more.
We are such dependent creatures
it's a miracle our heart pumps blood
without us asking it to.
But now blood's rushing south of the border
and everything feels good.
Suddenly David Carradine didn't seem that crazy after all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem