At what point does the poetry stop
For the sentimental slut?
Venus flytrap, claims she doesn't care
One way or the other, when she lives
To swallow it whole.
Man meat is her muse: she wants it
All, yet wants to have a one and only.
When she thinks she's found him,
She scribbles verses on wrinkled sheets
Until the last whiff of sweat, cologne,
Mingled joy juice evaporates, until
The ink is all smeared. She worries
And her syllables suffer, and since
She never sleeps with poets,
She never gets the proof she needs.
Digesting yet another error,
She resolves yet another time never
To fall so intensely and dumbly again,
With open legs and ready pen.

Poetic Inspiration