~another bucket.man rendition~

there's a me in the you - i miss the we.
real men and women. where are they?
stuck in this neuvo reality of pretension.
sucking meat off fleshy bones of carrion,
sows and cows. lipping occasional vegies.
talks about propriety with belches wild and farting.
flatuence once a hidden occurrence
where propriety was the norm. yet, speak the
wrong terms, all hail the war of consequence.
between jell filled faces, plumped lips, lipo
suctioned asses lean fingers drip with
cunt juices, waving gucci bags, painting war
faces in drunken stupors. sex wags her
vital signs. as if monkey love made a real
vestibule out of the crypt called womb today.
he battles the ranges there. among the heatless.
with socks unfurled, laying like captives across
a wooden dresser. dishes stacked - stuck
remains of dead carcasses. trash overflowing.
reminants of yesterday. stench rising.
capitalist dogma stark and overstated. a past
hung out to dry on lines of conquests
shaking tits and ass while cavorting wildly. giving
an arch, for rear entry, where towels get draped
on overly swollen cock. striking bushes hoping
for anguish - he stabs them repeatedly calling
movements affections. hand holding and kisses
remain modern acts of love. penetration and seminal fluid
exchanges of drips and drabs and
lipsticked remnants mean nothing
but vile interpretations.

a little boy was abused.

(Copyright © Donna L. Quesinberry-2007)