If you unzip a poem, what remains? he inquired. Bee stings, deer bones, wilted roses, and time itself, she replied. And if you make love to it? he asked. Well, she answered, sex with a poem is never just sex. Sex with a poem is an act of terrifyingly beautiful devastation. Poems don’t want your body; they want your words.
“Fragment 33” by Meggie Royer
Love this!
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Ooph!
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Your ears, soul, your heart and your mind
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I really hope “sex with a poem” remains the most disturbing image in my head this week.
And if you’re going to do that, I hope you use protection! (A thesaurus, or maybe wrap yourself in the funnies first…)
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How about the coupon section? I think there were ziplock bag and Saran Wrap coupons.
And the poem never asks “but will you respect me in the morning?”
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I’m not thinking about this anymore.
*fingers in ears*
LALALALALALALA
(Don’t use the op-ed pages. No telling what kind of offspring that will lead to…)
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Baby SPAM!
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LALALALALA!!!!!!!
*runs away with fingers still in ears*
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“Wait, Guap, wait,” she cried
“What if it’s just a haiku?
That’s different, right?”
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