Poem #3

To Jerk off
onto a poet's grave
is to spill seeds of inspiration
into their soul
for aren't we all dead
if not now, fifteen minutes ago
the reader's rosebud minds flourish
from the nourishment
of our decaying minds
a part of us is no longer
with each stroke of the key
with each ejaculation into words
just like life can kill the body,
words can kill the sould
read on
slowly sending
us to
hades, heaven, or hell
my mind grows tired
my body grows old
I shot my load through this typewriter

by Carl A.I.

Other poems of A.I. (35)

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