New Under The Sun
How much tomfoolery drawn from why not? Take this party.
Take anal shots, for instance: asses set westward as Jell-O mold suns,
in a cut lip round of spin-the-bottle. One name tag winks, HELLO
MY NAME IS DOMINIQUE DE SADE, or something super shady.
Something like foreshadowing.
Tonight I won’t make a game of it, as Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk
merely nods to Stevie Nicks’ bottom feeding, side effect of septum
turned whole(y) tennis shoe. I feel shallow for her jewel case
allying improbable breasts: my favorite spot to toot these lines.
I sidled up a pony, & Faith saddled the spout
like a stallion. Perhaps penis envy, since
dropping her pants she showed rival balls, for which
I would have swapped my swinging rook. Still she moves
first bowel & shits in the unsuspecting sink.
She leaves me whites then — infestation chatters
as if man micturating in peace, free from these
diarrheic disturbances assumes a party without anal
chugs by way of beer lack. So wherefore keg stands?