I’m buoyed by porn—at hard time, mitts are busy.
I’ve pounded and I’ve mauled until I’m dizzy.
I peer at filmic love whose direction
ain’t very strong; movin’ northward, the projection,
livid, up for lust, lust a must. . .lubricity.

My fingers jerk, some days for fourteen hours.
And you can bet, when I’m there I will holler.
I’m rubbing so my chub, engorged, soon will be spending,
and you’d best believe, this work won’t soon be ending.
Living just for lust, must is lust. . .lubricity.

This sister’s crack, de-muffed, is sho nuff purty:
no skirt, no shorts—lord, if her legs could gird me!
I’d park my tool to the hilt of my curlies.
Yes, her look goes well beyond merely flirty.
Lips are puffed with lust; puffed my nuts. . .lubricity.

That brother’s part got more inches than many—
it’s plainly long, and it’s nickname ain’t “Kenny.”
A willie job involves a splayed crack needful—
the denouement—extraction; it ain’t seed-full.
Spritzin’ “must” from nuts, “must” in rut. . .lubricity.

Prepare my dong and beat it, hard, to mincemeat,
then spend my love, flocking the screen. . .looks like a blintz treat
whose filling’s shed and streaming out in profusion.
My thigh is soaked and in need of an ablution,
sticky with lust “must,” lust a must. . .lubricity.

Keyboard is smeared from my viewing of furrows—
not those on the forehead, but those into which a guy burrows.
I pace my toolwork better than my postings;
of parodies; maybe someone should be ghosting,
scribbling lusty stuff, stuff prompts guff’s*. . .[nom de] plume who’s witty.


*guffaws