For The Artist Who Paints My Balls Fifty Shades Of Blue
Just when I get some steam built, when I'm feeling
like an architect of steam, ready to vaporize
inside you, you say slow down, which isn't easy.
There are no power brakes in the genitals,
no runaway boner ramps. I flop onto my back.
The blood marches single-file down the long,
winding staircase of my cock, like an emergency
evacuation of the Washington Monument
during the height of tourist season. My testicles
ache like a boxer's punching bag. I wish a bell
would ding, and a bald Italian guy with ice packs
and smelling salts would hop into the ring
of our desire and give me a pep talk, remind me
to work on the clitoris, like the ribs of Apollo Creed.
poem by Jeffrey McDaniel
Added by Poetry Lover
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