Every night I dream of her 

Every night I cream of her 

Every day the dream continues 

Pulling on my pelvic sinews 

 

Out of me she seems to leek 

Cabbage-scented I secrete 

She is perfume I’m a fart 

In her I’d like to store my heart 

 

She leaves a stain upon my trousers 

Glows through dusk from multiple browsers

At my root I feel a growth 

Wordsworth and his plighted troth 

 

She isn’t like those other girls 

Is warm beneath her leafy curls

She doesn’t say my cock is small 

She doesn’t really talk at all

 

Want to inhale her not to bite 

She looks as though she’d taste of shite 

Porcelain skin that breaks my teeth 

Stabs me the sword and her the sheath 

 

The perfect vessel for my nuts 

Party snack on which I glut

Her folds and spirals are my kink 

Fill her with piss and still I drink 

 

In my mouth empty her bowels 

Clean me up with cotton towels 

Spit and froth and writhe and pine 

Isn’t it yonic like this to dine

 

 

Grosser and wronger I degrade 

Under her leaves keep me in shade 

It’s not my fault I’d sell my soul 

For a chance at fucking the Cabbage Bowl. 

romancing the artisan ceramics

martha wilson

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