Even if you had a wife, surely,
She would consume more than you-
The republicanism of her inner thighs,
Consuming:
Asking so much more than what you could
Retain for yourself,
Part of the multitudinous remnants of the waning
Petroleum Epoch- A self sustaining monarch,
Both eating and farting more than you
(Or your dogs) And taking up the bed, asking
You to do away with your childish isolationisms,
And to clean the dishes,
Going to sit with the popular kids in the back
Of the bus, leaving you troubled and no longer dimpled:
All of this for the brevity in life’s orgasm,
The soughing of the Virgilian folds: war, super,
And gift giving, and her eyes as lucent as waxy persimmons,
When you could do the job yourself with
Alacritive propensity: the janitor raising his
Flag pole with effervescent bunting, your own patriotism
That she would only work on sporadically after the
Greater necessities of her sister’s wedding,
The purple soap-operas of her slothful behoovings, when
There are girls right now working down Military Trail,
Industriously practiced,
Who could just so quickly come to make you realize
Into empirical, the guilty pleasure
Of the girl sitting beside you most Shakespearian,
Her utensils rhyming;
Busty, crowding into the harem of this,
Your peripheral vision,
While the object of your legal and binding union sits
Pontificating across the table, where the bill will soon
Come that you must take care of- something mundane,
Lest joyful than a sonnet.
The Brevity Of Life’s Orgasm
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