Whenever I lose who I am,
I always ask love.
We arrange over the phone
to meet at the library.
She loans me her card.
We check out the KAMA SUTRA.
Take it home; try it out.
She nearly, getting into this one
position, breaks her neck;
while I conserve junk
to give later to Jesus.
She blushes; shakes her head;
admits most men suck in bed;
and that’s statistically that.
But before you hand me my
hat, show me the door –
did you check the shredder?
Maybe you got so horny, you
thumbed it through the slot.
Actually, I hear shredding identity
can prove orgasmic.
Gone and done in a nano, of course;
but this is a different neurosis of a horse.
Takes no time to know overamped
lust shorts consciousness out.
My ego, you see, ate my ID. But
no sweat, I’ll just scare love up.
Gotta be in here somewhere.
Here, this thread goes maybe
with the address? Can you help, love, glue back together the shreds?
Willie Smith
aiurea press 