Poetry

Spooktown, 29 (303.)

Would that she would treat me
like a lever-action rifle,
and pump me,
just pump me
until I’m ready to blow.
I wish a woman would caress me
like a second amendment enthusiast
caresses a pistol,
but I digress.
It’s sad that I can only liken my lust to violence.
The slow ache of longing
leaves me focused on only romance,
so with my eye staring through the scope,
I lose all sense
of the rest of the world.
I ignore all the beauty
outside
of the gun.

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