Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.
My game plan?
Cockspiration.
Making trolls weep under their cum-covered bridges.
I should - I should
know your middle name,
And at least three personal tragedies you’ve worn,
Before I’m seeing your dick.
That’s my exchange rate.
Pure and simple. If
you’re flaring up my phone
Or my OkCupid profile with some grainy, mange-tossed
Thatch of hair and grey, calloused member,
What do you expect?
Swooning? Pity fucks?
And if you took the pic yourself, it’s even more pathetic.
Everyone knows the best sex pics, like all mistakes,
Need perspective. Illumination. A dedicated background.
Oh, goddamn, yes – I’m judging your white socks
And the rash darting around your thighs.
I’m wincing at the trundle of dirty clothes
Slopped on the floor beneath you.
Mise en place is everything.
Take this iconoclastic phallus
I’ve sent you,
Strive not for perfection,
But for the capitalization of the ideal.
And maybe,
Just maybe,
Don’t fucking send people your junk
Like it's a Craigslist sofa sale.
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