Ringed up juvenile disposition in their tired wasteland eyes,
Making a go of it in terrifying sweeps of sheeted "wait untils."
That creaking asleep in the corners, prodigious in its crunch, Cranking out our swan songs and improvised melodies
Into the crotch-less panties of the infinite ether.
The cold, clay-bound dildos of business,
The vibrators of engineering, batteries long dead,
The sad cast aside blow-up dolls of law-time taxes,
And the rival rim-job professions, which are all the same sex of waiting
The Boners…
Oh, the Boners of our lives,
All the Boners of our lives,
Of yours
And mine,
Are long since limp in anticipation of the tiny little boner-respirators they will soon require.
