The real pros pencil their
names on arranged bodies—
preferable the bride or monster,
taken by snakey prods of troubadors—
horns blared from wet lips
still stung from laps amid delilah thighs.
Small and innocent—no no, targeted.
Collosal. The sex is not jellies and bellies,
words and warm spots, as the
now bald once young loves
fiddle their prunes in a stall.
The first five books of poetry
were on crops, gods, government,
legend, and sexy women:
the woman of the crops,
the goddess over government,
the legendary heroine with
the sword and the looks—
history has fondled the swat dangles,
pinched asses, and
sapped, flitless springs of tits and else,
in a menstrual fashion,
and with sporadic jaunts into
prurience, puritanism, and kink.
History is shocked by the real pros,
as bifurcated dicks unroll like fern leaves,
and every last barter stands still.
Ray Succre © 2007