William and Wilhelmina
smashed their necks together
like big, dumb giraffes.
It was hot,
like the Sahara
and her mascara ran.
He sweated right out of his ******.
They rutted and nutted,
then drank from each other’s
watering holes.

Someone new came along
and came along
and came and came
and came
and then it fizzled out
like a dodgy firework.
Shame really.

Does this poem have *** appeal?
Oh don’t you know it.
It’s got green eyes, dark hair,
and a jawline that’s stoic.

It’s thickly bearded,
and has a good dress sense,
audaciously flirtatious,
and knows self-defence.

This poem’s got thick muscly arms
which look good holding babies,
and skilful, strong hands
which look soft for the ladies.

This poem smells good
even after the gym,
with a gorgeous deep voice
and gorgeous smooth skin.

It wears tight jeans
which show off its dic–
                                       tion is good,
so you can hear what it’s saying.
        But this poem has a boyfriend—
        I know, how dismaying.

If you were to stab a poet
with intent to really hurt,
would you be at all surprised
when blood begins to spurt?

You wouldn’t see a drop of ink,
that’s not what’s in their veins
despite what teenage “poets” say
with their undeveloped brains.

He gave her ****** a battering,
her stomach a splattering,
then left,
                how flattering.

I’d drive down winding mountain roads
in the dead of night.
I’d take an underwater cruise
in a sub that’s not airtight.

I’d be a beekeeper for a while
but never wear a suit.
I’d listen to a nine-year-old,
try to play the flute.

I’d watch the emoji movie
in a room with all my exes.
I’d catch a flight to Idaho
and ******* hop to Texas.

I hope you never see this list
'*** it consists of stuff I’d do
to give myself some time alone
or just away from you.

Beneath the surface,
Russell had always felt worthless.
When finally he gave up
his search for purpose,
he bought, lit, and chucked
himself in a furnace.