[The following poem has been reviewed by poet management consultants and state verse crisis overseers. The State of Wyoming warrants that the following poem is not obscene and that any interpretation of any matter herein demarks any person holding such an opinion to be inadequate and inaccurate according to accepted poetry accounting standards.]
vaulted beyond the confines of the monkeys
and Vultures lunched upon my sex
Laughing, I replied to their wantings:
your cravings are wanton, and random, and insatiable
and whatever I make
and not yours
despite your carnivorations.
The Vultures replied
(it was echo like)
"our lunch is your"
and they stopped
as their lubricants had run dry.
Without the propulsion of my emissions
I said this forsaking the rhyming patterns of past poetry,
which had died several years before.
go fuck thy squeekful thighs.
Take no more from us.
Take no more of us
from the pheramone planet.
and so die the graceful death of unworthy inventions.
In deciding, you reside
in the quiet place
Not that of Nuns, but of bright beasts, free, with big swinging