Not yet a student of
fastidious geisha pillow talk,
or subtle sticky desert nights
on perfumed rugs, or tendril limbs
of Hindu gods exposing how
to shag a thousand ways in stone,
or chandeliers’ riggish janglings
in Paris, Petersburg, nor yet
multiple Califoraian kicks ...

I’m shown, by Neck Ends, in a dock canteen,
the secret of the Biggest Thrill:
a fly, he mimes, with wings wrenched off,
walking his swollen cock’s bell-end.

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