there's an acrobatic muse under my bedsheets,
fucking the words straight out of me
with each (super)position we switch to
when we're bored
"yes... i... love... you... yes...yes..."
she responds after playing with my limpness
"you're not a poet, you atomic bastard,
you just have threesomes with a thesaurus
and a fucking dictionary
without me you'd be radioactive,
burning the pages you've written."
