Insta-poem Result
OK, so I had to cut out the last few suggestions because the poem was pretty much completed. But I incorporated them ... in a way.
I present to you:
The Peloponnesian Lance Armstrong DookieBoogers His Way into A Seraphim’s Meta-Narrative
Feminism doesn’t mean
performing cunnilingus
with a smile on your face.
Just ask Big Poppa E’s mom.
She can be so demanding.
Faster.
Slower.
Higher.
Lower.
Quick, Eirik’s home.
Hide the billy goat.
The passionate rhinoceros
trampling through the Saharan desert
called my romantic life has lost
his horn and doesn’t care if it’s ever found.
He’s not horny.
I’m not horny.
This make-out session would make for
the most boring National Geographic special ever.
Except for the one about bukkake.
There are too many secrets stored
in your throat for me to reveal.
Your tongue is shaped like the word Classified
and you’ve stamped every inch of my face so nobody
else can read the truth buried beneath.
Your kisses are dull cutlery,
knives worn flat and stubby from being used
to cut too many people open.
Trying to find your G-spot was like
committing suicide with a letter opener:
hilarious and tragic.
It’s not that you’re a bad lover.
It’s that I am.
I must be.
I’ve tried every angle,
mapped out my approach with compass and straight-edge,
employed NASA scientists to design my nookie,
and still I seem to come up short.
All a man wants to do sometimes
is make a woman feel like she’s made out of acid-free paper and perfume.
Instead, I’m left with this menagerie of Playboys,
pick a year, any year,
and I’ll pull a boob out from behind your ear.
I’m a sexy magician, baby, with no tricks
you haven’t seen a thousand times.
Sorry to break the news, but Harry Potter dies at the end
from exhaustion and the weight of failure.
Even his wand couldn’t make your skin buzz.
Your buttocks were two wounded bunnies
I would’ve nursed back to health
if you’d given me half a chance.
Your breasts were two unexplored Afghanistan mountains
and I’m sure I could’ve found Osama inside one
if I could’ve taken a deep breath first.
Your neck was a fireman’s ladder,
leading to a burning building
filled with your orphan moans
and I was afraid of coming out empty-handed.
So go ahead and slink into the elephantine recesses of your sexual fantasies.
Go ahead and close your eyes and pretend I’m Jitin the Magnificent,
Brad the Barista at Starbucks,
or the new hunk on Desperate Housewives.
Go ahead and fake it.
I don’t mind too much.
Just so long as you write about me in your diary
and tell your roommates that the high-pitched howls
they heard last night
were from your pleasure
not my embarrassment.
I present to you:
The Peloponnesian Lance Armstrong DookieBoogers His Way into A Seraphim’s Meta-Narrative
Feminism doesn’t mean
performing cunnilingus
with a smile on your face.
Just ask Big Poppa E’s mom.
She can be so demanding.
Faster.
Slower.
Higher.
Lower.
Quick, Eirik’s home.
Hide the billy goat.
The passionate rhinoceros
trampling through the Saharan desert
called my romantic life has lost
his horn and doesn’t care if it’s ever found.
He’s not horny.
I’m not horny.
This make-out session would make for
the most boring National Geographic special ever.
Except for the one about bukkake.
There are too many secrets stored
in your throat for me to reveal.
Your tongue is shaped like the word Classified
and you’ve stamped every inch of my face so nobody
else can read the truth buried beneath.
Your kisses are dull cutlery,
knives worn flat and stubby from being used
to cut too many people open.
Trying to find your G-spot was like
committing suicide with a letter opener:
hilarious and tragic.
It’s not that you’re a bad lover.
It’s that I am.
I must be.
I’ve tried every angle,
mapped out my approach with compass and straight-edge,
employed NASA scientists to design my nookie,
and still I seem to come up short.
All a man wants to do sometimes
is make a woman feel like she’s made out of acid-free paper and perfume.
Instead, I’m left with this menagerie of Playboys,
pick a year, any year,
and I’ll pull a boob out from behind your ear.
I’m a sexy magician, baby, with no tricks
you haven’t seen a thousand times.
Sorry to break the news, but Harry Potter dies at the end
from exhaustion and the weight of failure.
Even his wand couldn’t make your skin buzz.
Your buttocks were two wounded bunnies
I would’ve nursed back to health
if you’d given me half a chance.
Your breasts were two unexplored Afghanistan mountains
and I’m sure I could’ve found Osama inside one
if I could’ve taken a deep breath first.
Your neck was a fireman’s ladder,
leading to a burning building
filled with your orphan moans
and I was afraid of coming out empty-handed.
So go ahead and slink into the elephantine recesses of your sexual fantasies.
Go ahead and close your eyes and pretend I’m Jitin the Magnificent,
Brad the Barista at Starbucks,
or the new hunk on Desperate Housewives.
Go ahead and fake it.
I don’t mind too much.
Just so long as you write about me in your diary
and tell your roommates that the high-pitched howls
they heard last night
were from your pleasure
not my embarrassment.