not bragging if its true

i’m a cold-blooded poet.
born that way
with perverted passion
to expose myself.
i defend the sissy
in the latest fashion.
and dime store whores
dressed in disease.
i don’t fight fair.
i like to leave scars.
straight men
read my poems,
and want to suck dick.
but they’re not queer.
i’m ok with that.
i feel obligated to them
just watch the teeth.
every man
bears his cross.
on his knees
the suicide burden
is child’s play.
i’m jealous
of the mexican’s
cock and tongue.
he rides me
like a mustang
and puts me away wet.
i can be in a strange land
east or west.
breaking the law
with a strange hand
crawling down my pants.
it’s rough being a poet.
i write with a hardon.
in a jock strap
smoking menthol cigarettes.
sometimes i bottom
but mostly i top.
they always
remember my name.
the indoctrinated
are very tight.
they scream and moan,
tumble and twist.
that’s a poem
all to it’s self.
like being pissed on.
there is no one beautiful
or no one deformed.
i murder all half-truths.
i strangle all
bold-faced lies.
i have no sympathy
for those not naked.
my poems are edged
till they ejaculate
in your face.
i shower
after every poem.
i never know
when i’ll fuck
another sonnet
better than
bukowski did.

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