Love Poem

Sitting here, I get to thinking
about your ass.
An important job for the ass, sitting
and as I do it, it reminds me of your ass
Really, everything reminds me of your ass.
The internet, say, is full of ass,
but not yours,
which of course makes me think of
your ass.

Walking, I imagine I'm following you,
shopping for clothes I think of how you'd wear them
and how the fabric would move
your ass
and drinking I think progressively
more and more about it
and breathing I picture my breath
stirring the fine hairs of
your ass.


Licking anything, of course,
but that goes without saying . . .
The moon is a great cliché
all about your ass,
the sun shines more brightly on your ass,
the hills and valleys sculpted themselves
in anticipation of your ass.

The skies, the stars, the city,
hell, even the weather reminds me

Like when it's hot, or wet,
or even cold.
You can be that way.
Or the wind . . .
well, actually the wind
reminds me of your prick.

Just about everything
reminds me of your prick.

--Ah-Pook, Clan Bard

Last modified: October 01, 2005

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