The Vulgar Horse

May 27, 2008

She told me she wanted all seven of her holes filled.

I didn't fully understand at first, but the moment my

mental capacity was struck, I was appalled, then

there was vomit.

Too open, all her freedoms are stalked sugar cane overly

sweet, diabetes, and distributes like agriculture.

Fey, incomplete feats by this holder of curvatures is

shameless without discretion and seemingly will

be far from a defeat cause by all like her who choose

to drink in any tenuous thrusts brought on by a

tingling crotch.

I, not by choice, choose to yield from this libidinal appeal

that pained me from tooth to heel.

Scream at the madness. Madness, man.

If she can't achieve me here, she will veer.

I am nothing to her. I'm refuse and dust, then.

She will view my attractions; she will call me names,

she will possibly accost me physically, and later

will ask "What's wrong with me?"

Hulking with sex, this street-bound power princess

will push a hush on any who relate to the positive.

She will take out her wine and beer and joints to

reel in her comforts, and will not be swooned by

familiar lies that led her presence.

She is whoever’s creature, this animal that works and works

and works it intentionally well.

Swallower of all spirits, a soul-reliving succubus who enjoys

casting thoughtless enchantments to prove the flaccid

validity of a strong planet.

She's whoever experience is; she's havoc.

As she wraps her arms around another hopeful, navigated

once again by habit, she will turn to me with a half-smile and

sneer and will wonder and will not wonder, but she will know

with cutting-hatred that my place with her is one of an eternal

refuter.

I turn from the moment and go.

This is her customhouse. A club with absolution without change,

and blank of red-faced redemption.

She giggles to blur on-coming ends of her youth and resurgence.

There is a sort admiration to brandish here for this scatterer of

a future impaired.

She snickers now at being drunk on her sensual success.

She wills her will to blot me out, to steal other wills on a

bed, floor or couch.

© 2008 Jarrod C. Lacy