Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
mosquitoism May 2014
274 Etceteras
left behind orphans, moms, widows et cetera
who cares et cetera what their names are?
for they're Heroes indeed, Martyrs now et cetera.
**** happens et cetera, "it's common". Why surprised?
I'll give you some examples; China, England et cetera
That's the way the cookie crumbles.
Hope you're safe and sound et cetera
in your warm, cozy et cetera house.
WE et cetera are used to cold stones and mines.
though not stone-cold hearts.



mosquitoism
Almost 300 miners are killed in an explosion and a fire at a coal mine in Soma in western Turkey.
Ari  Feb 2010
In Philadelphia
Ari Feb 2010
there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia
My best Ginsberg impression.
Old Blue  Jun 2013
Homophobia
Old Blue Jun 2013
I hate how the words
"Lesbian," "Gay," "Bisexual," et cetera
Are thought of as bad words.

It's like, oh, no, don't teach your little sister the word lesbian
Don't tell her there are some girls who like other girls
How inappropriate!

It's like, oh, no, don't teach your little brother the word gay
Don't tell him there are some boys who like other boys
How disgusting!

Don't let anyone under the age you deem appropriate know
That there are people who aren't heterosexual
Why?
I can't possibly understand why.

There is no reason for homophobia, not really.
I saw a metaphor somewhere that went something like this:
"I was in Subway, and I bought myself a ham sub. As I was paying, the man behind me bought a different sub than me, and I was immediately offended that he got a different sandwich."
This is what it sounds like when people say homosexual people affect them.
How do they affect you?

Just because they don't love someone who is of the opposite ***
Or just because they like both
Or something else
Just because of their ****** preference, no matter what it may be
You think that gives you reason to hate them? Really?
Just because they're different than the 'normal' you're used to?
Normality is relative.
You can't say it's not "normal."
That is not a justified nor sensical argument.

What is wrong with those people?
Can't they just see past all their biases and realize that we're all people
And we all deserve the same rights no matter who we're attracted to
No matter who we kiss
No matter who we touch
No matter who we have *** with
Is it really that difficult?

We're all humans when it comes down to it, and we all deserve the same rights.
Everyone should be able to see that.


And you know what I wonder?
Why are we voting on whether people deserve rights or not in the first place?

And then there's people who act like homosexuality is a disease
People who act like anyone who is anything but heterosexual is broken and needs to be fixed

They're not broken.
They don't need to be fixed.
They are who they are, and the government shouldn't tell them what they can and cannot do
Based simply and only on who they're attracted to.

"You can't get married because you aren't straight."
Do you realize how shallow that is? Do you?
"You're disgusting because you aren't straight."
Why?
Why should it matter to you who they're in a relationship with?
It's their life, their decision.

No one ever asks heterosexual people why they're heterosexual.
No one ever says, "Hey, when did you decide you were straight?"
It's just ridiculous, and I'm fed up of it.

"If gay marriage is legalized, more people will become gay."
Oh, yeah, sure, of course, that will totally happen.
Just like when African Americans were given rights
Everyone decided they wanted to go out and become African American.
Just like when women were given rights
Everyone decided they wanted to go out and become female.

People of all sorts of sexualities and preferences have grown up
With mostly straight media everywhere
It didn't "turn" them straight.
So gay media won't "turn" anyone gay
It won't hurt anyone if there's a gay couple in a commercial.
Or a TV show.
Or any other form of media.

It makes me sick to think that just because of your personal opinion
My friends who are not heterosexual would not be allowed to get married
To the person that they love.

Do you know what will happen if gay marriage is legalized?
Gay people will get married.

Why can't you just understand that it doesn't matter?
Why should you care what they do?
Why should you care who they like?

It doesn't affect you.
It doesn't change you.
It's just giving LGBT people more control over their own lives.
It's just giving LGBT people rights they should have had in the first place.

**Why?
Sorry this wasn't much of a poem, it was just something I had to get off my chest.
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)

Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition

generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid

for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets

to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to ******
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
page number two:

fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,

via unspoken mandate, and
thence subsequently, when receiving
presents galore, tis incumbent to craft
sincere polite thank you note
(written in calligraphy if possibly)
to evince real or feigned gratitude
despite The Battle of Life travails
and, whenever possibly necessarily
over spending monetary reserves
setting stage for Bleak House
after festivities subside,

whence welcoming return to employ
ment to garner green legal tender
to stave off Hard Times glad to
cease hearing annoying renditions
qua A Christmas Carol, and visiting
countless theaters enduring
legions of young actors and or
actresses portray the saga of Oliver Twist
a disadvantaged indigent boy
(given up by his mum),

and grudgingly accepted in an
Almshouse, where his early existence
mirrored unfair cruelty, whereat
Master of the deprived ladelled
thin gruel only one ration, a worse
perdition than death, this measly diet
lacked minimal nutrition, The Battle of Life.

This American Notes a disproportionate
concentration to reach out to those less fortunate
particularly Thanksgiving and Xmas
which effort laudable, yet a diminution
for succor such as: triumph over adversity
sustenance, accommodations seems
to muffle The Chimes remaining
three hundred and some odd or even days.
as the late afternoon twilight years
of this primate become sans my exist
hence, more visible on the horizon
an increasing awareness prevails asper
how this middle aged baby boomer

(whose incessant, inconsolable, and
incurable wailing still reverberates til
this day - LIX exiting the birth canal
since January thirteenth ninety fifty
and nine) promulgates nascent longing

jumpstarting helping formulate doing
beneficial actions. only of late didst
an upswell to demonstrate appreciation
(towards acquaintances, countrymen/
women, family of origin, friends,

neigh boars, relatives, Romans, et cetera)
becomes a manifest destiny. awareness
crystallized within the recent past of
my life and hard (days night) times
this yearningto "pay forward" ***** deeds
done dirt cheap along the highway to hell

(mainly within a voluntary capacity)
to avail energy of waning body, mind,
spirit triage. until such a plan (as
per say traveling abroad - either a
lone or with an adventurous minded Ma
demoiselle) coalesces into fruition,

a daily strategy to impact my imme
diate environment in a positive manner
took figurative shape. his doable, feasible,
justifiable, et cetera longing (to contribute
sweat equity such as organic gardening/

farming, teaching English as a first, second
third...language, or writing opinion
editorials blurbs for a news letter,
which loving labors of body, mind
and spirit would be accepted would serve

in lieu as payment for buzzfeed ding,
livingsocial, lodging, et cetera accommodations.
the best buy google research to locate a
handy dandy blues clues milieu, true
value venue iterated above reference

to intentional communities, yet no idea
this bumbling, fumbling, rambling,
et cetera twisted missive would find me
making mention of a logically obvious
proscribed resource. upon setting

my figurative sights regarding the end
ever explicitly, fixedly, and pointedly
to communicate how to adopt modalities
helping other people (in ways within
my capacity), the undercurrent, sans

writing this epistle, an off the beaten
track prospect found unplanned impregnated
insinuation cradling embryonic vision
visited by the secondary modus operandi.

the bespoken ambition (asper reciprocating
the consideration to pursue voluntary
employment. ideally this agreeable deal
(includes a small stipend plus room
and board). the inclusion of the latter

(tacked on as a strong consideration -
figured as welcome visualized reprieve.
hence this prosaic/ poetic add on -
at no extra charge - slightly expanded
the original intended tone of this blurb.

rather than dismiss tangential thread
mainly to air considerations divergent
incorporating alternative arrangements
to call home already moderately
lengthy soundcloud, i freely shared
a tangential welcoming pseudo string
of consciousness thread.
W. H. Auden  Jun 2009
Victor
Victor was a little baby,
Into this world he came;
His father took him on his knee and said:
'Don't dishonour the family name.'

Victor looked up at his father
Looked up with big round eyes:
His father said; 'Victor, my only son,
Don't you ever ever tell lies.'

Victor and his father went riding
Out in a little dog-cart;
His father took a Bible from his pocket and read;
'Blessed are the pure in heart.'

It was a frosty December
Victor was only eighteen,
But his figures were neat and his margins were straight
And his cuffs were always clean.

He took a room at the Peveril,
A respectable boarding-house;
And Time watched Victor day after day
As a cat will watch a mouse.

The clerks slapped Victor on the shoulder;
'Have you ever had woman?' they said,
'Come down town with us on Saturday night.'
Victor smiled and shook his head.

The manager sat in his office,
Smoked a Corona cigar:
Said; 'Victor's a decent fellow but
He's too mousy to go far.'

Victor went up the his bedroom,
Set the alarum bell;
Climbed into bed, took his Bible and read
Of what happened to Jezebel.

It was the First of April,
Anna to the Peveril came;
Her eyes, her lips, her *******, her hips
And her smile set men aflame,

She looked as pure as a schoolgirl
On her First Communion day,
But her kisses were like the best champagne
When she gave herself away.

It was the Second of April.
She was wearing a coat of fur;
Victor met her upon the stair
And he fell in love with her.

The first time he made his proposal,
She laughed, said; 'I'll never wed;
The second time there was a pause;
Then she smiled and shook her head.

Anna looked into her mirror,
Pouted and gave a frown:
Said 'Victor's as dull as a wet afternoon
But I've got to settle down.'

The third time he made his proposal,
As they walked by the Reservoir:
She gave him a kiss like a blow on the head,
Said; 'You are my heart's desire.'

They were married early in August,
She said; 'Kiss me, you funny boy';
Victor took her in his arms and said;
'O my Helen of Troy.'

It was the middle of September,
Victor came to the office one day;
He was wearing a flower in his buttonhole,
He was late but he was gay.

The clerks were talking of Anna,
The door was just ajar:
One said, 'Poor old Victor, but where ignorance
Is bliss, et cetera.'

Victor stood still as a statue,
The door was just ajar:
One said, 'God, what fun I had with her
In that Baby Austin car.'

Victor walked out into the High Street,
He walked to the edge of town:
He came to the allotments and the ******* heap
And his tears came tumbling down.

Victor looked up at the sunset
As he stood there all alone;
Cried; 'Are you in Heaven, Father?'
But the sky said 'Address not known'.

Victor looked at the mountains,
The mountains all covered in snow
Cried; 'Are you pleased with me, Father?'
And the answer came back, No.

Victor came to the forest,
Cried: 'Father, will she ever be true?'
And the oaks and the beeches shook their heads
And they answered: 'Not to you.'

Victor came to the meadow
Where the wind went sweeping by:
Cried; 'O Father, I love her so',
But the wind said, 'She must die'.

Victor came to the river
Running so deep and so still:
Crying; 'O Father, what shall I do?'
And the river answered, '****'.

Anna was sitting at table,
Drawing cards from a pack;
Anna was sitting at table
Waiting for her husband to come back.

It wasn't the Jack of Diamonds
Nor the Joker she drew first;
It wasn't the King or the Queen of Hearts
But the Ace of Spades reversed.

Victor stood in the doorway,
He didn't utter a word:
She said; 'What's the matter, darling?'
He behaved as if he hadn't heard.

There was a voice in his left ear,
There was a voice in his right,
There was a voice at the base of his skull
Saying, 'She must die tonight.'

Victor picked up a carving-knife,
His features were set and drawn,
Said; 'Anna it would have been better for you
If you had not been born.'

Anna jumped up from the table,
Anna started to scream,
But Victor came slowly after her
Like a horror in a dream.

She dodged behind the sofa,
She tore down a curtain rod,
But Victor came slowly after her:
Said; 'Prepare to meet thy God.'

She managed to wrench the door open,
She ran and she didn't stop.
But Victor followed her up the stairs
And he caught her at the top.

He stood there above the body,
He stood there holding the knife;
And the blood ran down the stairs and sang,
'I'm the Resurrection and the Life'.

They tapped Victor on the shoulder,
They took him away in a van;
He sat as quiet as a lump of moss
Saying, 'I am the Son of Man'.

Victor sat in a corner
Making a woman of clay:
Saying; 'I am Alpha and Omega, I shall come
To judge the earth some day.'
demons and monsters

whether personal
    or sprung from  Hollywood creations
    in that vein

seem to be a little bit like gods

you can
     believe in them
     blame them
     adore them
     fear them
     pray to them

but

     or because

you have no proof
they exist
daisypunk Mar 2023
you were bound by my ash
and my blood
we'll make it through another winter won't we
let's stop pretending
let's drop the pretenses
what more could i give
all of it spent so you could learn to live
Mike Essig Apr 2015
aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what

is more did tell you just

what everybody was fighting

for,

my sister

isabel created hundreds

(and

hundreds)of socks not to

mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers

etcetera wristers etcetera, my

mother hoped that

i would die etcetera

bravely of course my father used

to become hoarse talking about how it was

a privilege and if only he

could meanwhile my

self etcetera lay quietly

in the deep mud et
cetera

(dreaming,

et

  cetera, of

Your smile

eyes knees and of your Etcetera)
One of the strangest poems about war ever written. This was The Great War, WWI. Having to fight in it, Cummings didn't think it was so great.
although the election results,
(and his imprimatur dissolving, fading, receding,
et cetera now ranks as old news,
i still feel that adulation beckons cheers

defying odds to win the hearts and minds
aside from this one voter who cast his vote
for a (as he calls himself "mutt" of mongrel -
with no insinuation for denigration)

toward a biracial mortal male who epitomizes
that je nais sais quois ambition du jour
to tackle the multitude of local
and/or global challenges
with his prized defensive team.

no doubt he probably already composed
some rough draft per his inaugural address
(or yours - eminent president elect
if ye happen to be perusing the contents
of this email) will address the outstanding crisis

that confront the home turf
and international world stage
populated with tough rooted quandaries,
which hardly allows, enables
and provides for mushroom to err.

rather than fritter critical and valuable time
to blame or fear for the prior
republican administration
that could be held accountable
for the current morass, i reckon

that tis prudent to expend
the precious sands of time to ameliorate
those most serious issues without resorting
to fear, which machiavellian technique
this admirer begs to differ.

aside from begging to differ
with your philosophy to affect guilt
in other (as like an invisible ****),
the paradigm presented promulgated
(in prestigious media resources)

pleases this papa of deux daughters,
which principles of the first
african american occupant of the white house
brings solace within this spirit.

no matter mind boggling and overwhelming lesions
seem to witness this two hundred quarter
plus democratic experiment to hemorrhage
and require emergency action,

i feel reassured that resuscitation
of this body politick will recover
and become restored to vibrant health
thru the confident intervention thru diligence,

intelligence, ordinance, et cetera of (emma)
eminence filled pride without prejudice,
sense and sensibility to become like
some wunderkind in the oval office.

even now (about one month or less)
when that oath taken to heart to uphold
the covenant of life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness

(as attempted to be codified by founding fathers
of this country - i.e. these united states of america)
stunned disbelief still abounds
within my liberal filled conscience,

yet excited at the prospect
one young(ish) noble representative
of **** sapiens exhibits
much esteemed aura, charisma, dogma,

and persona so pertinent at this juncture
in the history of fifty states who weathered
(yet survived) dramas that nearly rent asunder
the very fabric of this amazing society.

unbeknownst to anyone such as dumbledorf,
estimable magicians with awesome powers
of prestidigitation, j.k. rowling, santa claus,
seers, soothsayers, the wizard of oz, tooth fairy),

la de da to forecast if thine indomitable agility,
civility, electricity, gentility, integrity,
et cetera will be effective to deliver
superhuman feats of accomplishments.

this audacity of hope (telepathically communicated
from dreams of my widower father and late mother)
blessedly delivered some capacity of genuine faith
that seems hinged on the evident decency enunciated

(time and again - ever since ye took
to the campaign trail and now amazingly finds
one gracious honoree to guide the populace at large)
to offer deliverance and salvation.

AMERICA IN DIRE NEED OF A STATESMAN
WITH HIS CALIBER, FIRE RE: ELOQUENCE, AND HUMILITY!
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
Memes! Angels, aberrations of opposition super standing
overseeing you,

The screamin' heebie jeebies.

Yo, where you wanta go, you axin me we just go

with it, the flow 'know?

What I mean is, are we memes or mes or messes of yeses
gone all johnny rcome late-rotten scarred scared, some thing not so far
from sacred when you put your mind to the whole idea of life being

at all. Thinking this is not easy. We are Able. Our belly's living waters cry out,

you are your brother's keeper, yes, you are.

Be leavin' that be, I am is, and you is,
too. When you apprehend the meme named
war.
That meme has led the me-me mob for as far as men
remember, but
now, machines remember for us, all the facts, just
the facts, ma'am.

Why'd the d go into a comma, Pop?

Welt (Duetch, bitte) Enshaung, glaube ich, vie leicht, aber

are we ever going to filter out these German bleed-overs?
stay tuned, next week the meme beacon is pulled down,

who shall pre or post or ex maybe vail, travail, like
trip
wow, I hate being a 20 year old vet back in the U.S. of A.
FTA All the way, Airborne

*******, Herman Hesse *******
Jorney to and fro the east to west, and soon, et
cetera. Siam is a mere myth now, eh?

As the Narnia thing not called a heathen lie was allowed
allowable in mere Christianity.

I've only seen the English POV's on PBS, they may be filtered through
feedback, meme belching bursting bubbles from new wine 'nold vessels about to plode into eternity, singing along.

Thank you, very much. May I introduce, duce, intro duce, y'gittin this?

Duce means 2 if you see e squeen between, you see that?

Fun. No reason for fun? Who here, now, believes that or, no,
bees leavin' those lies be told?

Hunh? Y'know? Watch man, waht of the night?

See, what I mean? All this from me hearin' some guy say,
"Come and see, like that was  okeh. For any body, n'me, too.

Thinking, as a past-time, is pointless. You know, if you act like it.
Reading Howard Bloom's (Audiobook) for about the fourth time this week, while continuing the Radioman Chronicles pre-see-quel dilemea. I think epic poetry is seducing me.
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
   to the seminal instance
   whence spermatozoa
   (from profuse *******) beget

the miraculous propensity
   to procreate despite the steep odds
   female fertility fosters potential impregnation
   fusing the hereditary debt

of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
   fueling fancy free footloose fornication
   prior to seminal fertilization union
   sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with

   diametrically opposed exultant sensations
   (biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
   et cetera) seismic shocks inject  
when deliberate intent arises to disregard

   applying prophylactics choice
   plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
   bastes the "cooking" egg omelette  

which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
   first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
   of webbed world de jure upon
   consummating that most miraculous deed

necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
   from messy menstrual cycle
   she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
   in the euphoric family, she instinctually
   abides prenatal signals that heed

without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
   pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
   ineluctably, kinesthetically
   lectured by elder, especially cast

in thee reel life drama, that nine months
   til offspring utters initial whimper
   elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing

   to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
   when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably

   (perhaps colicky infant)
   gets first dibs to suckle,
   which round the clock nursing
   consumes moments many vast.

— The End —