Flaccid Poetry

Written in a little over a minute, this is something of a continuation from my ramblings on my own politics, which I finished and uploaded a little over ten minutes ago – enjoy, if you will do me such honour, my Flaccid Poetry.

How can I hope,
to litter my poetry
with careful formulations
and images of Anarchy,
when a celebrity I have dreamt of
lies naked on a hotel bed?

When the camera pans
across her skin so pale,
that she looks like a stunning corpse,
like the waitress who pours stale
tea, for me, in a coffee house
on every corner?

When she scowls at me,
and in that scowl I see a smile,
and she asks me if I read a lot,
and I reply yes, forgetting the bile,
which crawls up my throat as I stare
at the bestseller’s list.

The porn which litters those pages,
is as sexless as my celebrity,
as joyless as her recorded sex,
as empty as these words which I string to form poor poetry,
with a plaster around my finger as I type,
and a flaccid organ in my hand.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.