You taste the lips of a hundred fragmented men. Boasting that your divine secularity exalts you a writer of better poetry. The cries of 12 men are more artistic than the drabness of one. You forgot to peek in to the kaleidoscope of every angle. A ravaging between your thighs signals the only sense you have awakened. It’s bellow so great it drowns out the miraculousness of every other sensation. Stuffing love’s nomothetic void with the resound of the broken cultured man. Your prowess is not poetry, but the neglect of it. Your myriad of lovers elicit the lack thereof. Are you a tormented poet or is this simply a masquerade of whorery? You drape the silk sheen around your shoulders and dial up the only poetry you have ever come to know.