They told me what an orgasm was.
They showed me how it worked.
Lots of effort went into its making,
and you needed something close-by,
a rag or sock (for the cleanup).
But it felt good, so good,
and so I said yes, and yes, and YES!
and began the road to Bliss.

They told me what sex was for,
what its end and purpose.
They showed me lots of playful children.
They seemed to run everywhere,
and you had to keep an eye on them
(loud little shits).
But since I was once a child,
and had some happy memories,
I said okay, that sounds about right. Okay.

They told me what my life was for.
They talked in terms of sacrifice.  Honor.
“All gave some, but some gave all.”
And tears slipped out of their eyes.
So, looking at the soldier’s head-stone,
it seemed right to forget myself,
settle the debt I’d somehow incurred.

But then I rode an hour-long orgasm,
waited amazed for my bliss to subside,
didn’t need a rag,
produced no children,
and thought something they didn’t teach me:



You can take yours home — 
and yours, too.
No offense,
but I don't like 
what I see at all.
You bend the wrong way;
your adulation,
skews everything — 
and by such a band of old,
an army of ugly
well-past skill —
I can't stand it!

Send in, please,
those convex faces;
laugh at my smallness
as you mock my gaze.
I demand broad frames
that diminish and belittle,
that show with a smirk
my world

and leave me wanting