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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