zero chance

i hate the past.
some people might look at it as
a learning experience or say
hey, you’ve had good times, or say
remember when you laughed so
hard that your ribcage hurt? or say
everything happens for a reason,
but i say fuck you, sure as i love
tight pussy, i hate the past.

so I beseech you
stretch into the light of the future until
your hips ache from stretching (stretch like you
stretch when you’re reflecting on how low you just
sank her ass into that bed and then realize you
aren’t keeping the flow circulated to your thighs
and lactic acid is a bigger cocksucker than conan).

and i think and think and think and think
about some fat greased-up balding twenty-something
(who gives a shit?) wife-beater-bearing smug, guilty
jock itch masturbating to his warehouse of internet porn,
face bleached pale and a sickly green from just one too
many months without any externally-performed fellatio,

and i laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
because what that fucker forgot is that
cunnilingus is what counts
and that the smell of tired and rampant
pussy-soaked saliva sets you about as
psychologically fine as your first stroll
of admission through a white bourgeois
community garden.

sex is the best medicine,
and I feel physically sick
when I see these infants
parading around in their
shopping carts, eating and
eating and jamming their
fingers down their throats
to clear the canals to eat and
eat and eat again and eat until
the world erupts in nausea
and its chalk-thick
blood vessels burst
in a single saturated
ocean-sized
tear drop.

i wish i could convince the world that
love is always the best answer, every
time, and to never forget that
belief in loneliness
could help you find a higher purpose
if you have enough faith in faith to want to.

perhaps i’m looking at things the wrong
way. perhaps i think too much or i need
to be loved or i know where i’m going
or i hate to beg for sex (i mean, look at me),
but if there’s one thing good about the past,
is that it’s over.