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an assumption
of how many people
who would stand vigilant
along the mighty jumbled ridge
of your turgid pink-tipped super-tits

we want to invade your angry pussy
voiding sleeping nuts

but the pink wig
sends mixed signals

and who volunteers
to get his dick

and now i am reminded of this farmer
cutting furrows into pappy’s loam
(a boy, really
no doubt eating a stalk of hay
and swiping grimy forearm agin’
hims freckled, furrowed face)

inventing television

ushering in

all this

Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved