What else can I write about if I must always fornicate under
consent of the king? How
else can I adjudicate alliances if I am to play this gentlemen
only ladies forbidden game?
How maledictive, fictive, and irreparably parabolic, kryptonite
to all human superflights.
What else can I sing of if not penance for imagining a swing,
i.e., with absent swingers?
Not soft as rosebuds, an overdose of thorns, shall I truly find
you there? Haa-choo! Is’t
you? Careful of the draft, ill-covered lady, it’s only Saturday,
not okay to die acutely
of sex on a men’s holiday. Who will pay their respects, lower
salaries regardless? Who’ll
cry or light a cigarette, or sigh, or fight for Queen Margaret,
or, furious, be equally daring?
Fye upon me? Me? Me? I haven’t even thought of beginning.
I have not even been living.
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