Can you feel all the drool
Spooling down upon your words,
And the fingerprints; dirty fingernails
Smudging your sentences,
Rubbing the sense from your paragraphs?
I lounge and elbow my way
Through your writings; I burrow into the underclothes
Of your images, and your strutting ideas I wear
On my backside, like a shirt turned upside down
That only fits halfway, and reveals most the things meant to be hidden.
While your metaphors hang down, drying
Between my legs, like a forgotten afterbirth
I funnel loud echos, from your peculiar sentiments,
Through a tumescent portal, you have never laid eyes on-
Because you think I must be made all of sugared violets?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem