ORGANIC POETRY

Competent scribbler, organic poet.
My chest, testimony of his skills.
A wet trail that looks like an I
began it all.

Unabatable drive
and hard-wearing gift for recovery,
a second trail follows.
Printed out on down.
Another I.
Or an L?

Organic pen is
his penis, tireless.
It can draw circles as well.
There it goes, almost closed.
Sleek like sugar frosted ring.
A zero or an O.

Now he says:
I should rest,
but I can't,
put your finger through my arse.
I oblige,
there he comes,
a new trail,
perfect, followed
by a second one.
And they meet
like a V.

Well aimed, mate.

I can't wait for the next
sticky sign.
Will he shoot again?
By now, I know
I must help.
And do I enjoy it.
This one looks unfinished,
semi-circle,
smaller, weak,
less dense than the others.
Tiny U perhaps?

He brings down a mirror.
I admire his efforts:
manly endurance,
fine calligraphy.
He says:
you must read it backwards.
And I read
on my chest,
incomplete but genuine,
his message written with sperm:
I, L, O, V, U.
His penis is still erect.
 

© E. Sarezale, 2000
sarezale@yahoo.com
www.geocities.com/sarezale/