O! (And A. And E. And I. And U.)
Come to me, that I may have some
marginal command over you,
to elicit from myself a
long-awaited vowel movement
full-packed with peanuts of wisdom
(and my beast-ass freeze-dried literary skills).
O! Eliminate this consonant incontinence
so that I may toss words to page not pointlessly,
but with poignancy
like an augur with aphasia
waxing nonsensical yet with purpose about—
(Haven’t figured it out; go to the fridge
and score me a beer.)
O! I prostrate myself before you humbly,
my divine components of language!
Let me, a complete tool, siphon your brilliance and steel-sharp wit,
and as a practitioner of your grace—
and my own deft fingers—
milk the liquid ambrosia of poesy
From your loquacious prostate.
(Quick, refrigerate the rest of it.
Let’s make sure this shit lasts.)