Skinny girls have big *****,
and that's just no fun.
Sometimes when their pants drop,
it smells like fish and grot.
But that's okay, I'll lick it anyway,
be it the middle of the night
Or the dawn of a new day.
But baby when you ***
that sticky white goo,
I'll pop in a piece of gum
and then I'll leave you.

woe to man who created pills
they give me chills
they make me feel
take too many they'll make you ill
they deceive my fantasies
their thrill is real

woe to the man who made **** pills
with every one I take,
a piece of me is killed.

She lay beneath the soft cotton of the universe.
Hands bound by the silk of the vines.
Her green eyes flutter like the wings on a butterfly.

Anticipating his touch, she shivers with excitement.

Beg, he whispers in her ear.

I am your master,  your king.

Please, please.

I am your servant, your captive.

Take me upon the web of your lair as my will no longer belongs to me.
I obey and submit to you, for you will watch over my soul.
I will do this with joy and happiness.

We live in a world
that is at least
half darkness.
So shouldn't half of our poems
be dark?
Or perhaps half of every poem?

Or half of that?

How do we parse the darkness
of this world -
of our lives -
and still live?

How do we tip-toe on the edge
of eternity
the grave
And smile?

You figure it out.
It's a mystery.