Humping Eternally Away

I have this poetry collection I'm editing. This morning I was in a foul mood. I was editing for a four-hundred-and-twenty-pound finanacial wizard who had just emailed me. He says he's mostly muscle, but I know from where his hands sit on his stomach, that there's other stuff sifting around inside him. Maybe it's just his meanness piling up.

Last night I edited his work until my eyes edged out of their sockets with a clear mind to head toward my grandmother's sofa under my living room picture window. Still, I kept editing. This morning I received an email: "This is still loaded with obvious errors. I’m asking again that you not do these edits when you are tired." I reread my edit. Maybe I'd still change one or two sentences, but fuck (and I have to write FUCK although Steve the librarian from Baltimore says he's more selective in his verbal fuck celebrations), grammar and content were without fault. See what the financial man, whose name might be Garth, was pissed off about in his cold unappreciative way was I changed his words! His darlings! The man is turning into a fucking writer, a prima donna in drag.

So I checked out my unpublished poetry collection. Reading my own sex bits eases my mind. I still love editing, and even though I haven't had any in a while, I still adore sex. I like the texture of it. Then I did some research and it seems that sex writing is becoming mainstream. Damn. Gotta get the work out. Fuck fast and hard.

Here's a poem from the collection. An ancient one, true, but refurbished.

He struck her on the left breast, she
opened her legs leering
with her cunt. Cradling
his balls in her hand, she bit
him hard
on the neck

where are you headed, she
asked as he barreled his
way up her ass. To Ireland to shoot
my load he answered, she laughed
and scratched his right thigh, waving

her ass to the sky. He snarled
pumped harder, zipping
out of the room and reappearing
with a black kimono flapping
around him, I’ll try for the Orient

instead. Oh fuck, she said, as he plunged
into her cunt. As long as he was
in her he would never commit
seppuku, so he pumped away through
the night and all the next day and when

he was tired, needing a reprieve, to take
a piss, wolf down a pizza, he couldn’t
get out. So he remains humping
to this day, getting fat eating pizza, French
fries and MacDonald’s, pissing

without a care and who knows what
else while locked in her cunt, pumping
away. Jesus Christ what a bastard, locked
in a cunt, and humping eternally away.

Copyright Colman 2008