Taffy

He creamed his jeans. 
Ripped the seams  
when fellows beamed  
at his wet seeds  
wasted on these  
cold floors below me. 
Calloused palms tease,  
or, rather, some slimy sleaze.  
Can I have some more, please?   
My sphincter decrees  
a scuzzy squeeze,  
stench of cheese;  
paring knife to the nostril  
lashing and thrusting  
like a maid feather-dusting,  
corrupting a grunge within  
to correctly place the pin  
to pierce it through the skin  
and the good feelings begin  
for a second, a half whim.  
Then, reality rescinds  
and, with stone pillars, crushed him.

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