From
Peter Jacob Streitz
Mature content ahead, click to continue.
INK
When he humps
His love
Doggystyle
He sees God
But only if
The lights are on
Then there’s
The missionary
Position
And, not so much
But oh’boy
Cunnilingus
That’s where
Parrots and paradise
Fly
At eye level
Just below
The belt line
And suckling
The boobies
All forms
Of work arise
Or art
From comic
To sublime
But nothing
As masculine
Or cliché
As his
Barbwire
Or Chinese
Proverbs
But that’s all
Ching-chong
To him
Spinning his
Mind’s eye
Back to the nips
Where Elvis
Makes an appearance
Along with rose
Buds
That trick
His lips
At times
But heck
She gets
The killer view
When biting
His neck
And sucking
Sweet swastikas in
But fear not
This is adoration
Especially
When she licks
The teardrop
Dripping down
His cheek
Pooling on
His chest
That’s Born
To lose
Racism
Niggardly thoughts
How can there be
When slaves
Are the essential
Americans
And the yammering
Class
Cast stones
Against glass houses
Of righteous
Indignation
Where ivory leagues
Feel the painful
Angst
Of dumbass
Chicks
And trailer trash
That pump
Their bootay
Over ching-chang
Men
Who crash
The books
Instead of cooking
Them
Like Indians
With dots, not feathers
Or past imperialist
Who collude
With Vikings
To blissfully
Rape and pillage
The sons
Plus daughters
Of their mother’s
. . . and father’s land
While taking joy
In not standing
On the shoulder’s
Of giants
But hanging them
High