Hyperbole: I'm dying. Untouched,
stubborn to the dullness
that is waking up
to only regrets at my side,
now familiar bedfellows
Masturbation without imagination
A meta-like quality:
The star of a NatGeo special
A wild beast pleasures itself
for want of feeling
and I'm unconscious
my brain swelling with nameless want
Bloody Suburbia
A stalker's corpse in the bushes
bored to death
But we are not entertained
Assuming the missionary position
(is the poet not crass by nature?)
for much of our lives
on our backs
waiting for life to take us there
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