There is futility
in this relentless
carnal
thirst
that paralyzes me
like a knife
in my gut.
i revile ***
yet it is inescapable.
literature is
littered with it
as if
it's something
worth celebrating,
to be written about
over and over again
with the same words,
with the same ****** phrases
that attempt to approximate it
to something pure
pristine
something valuable,
as if it is not done
out of utter necessity
to keep
that knife
out of their gut.
the intense desire
to put a ****
into a ******
or an *******
is worthless,
yet unrelenting.
it is as bukowski has said,
a dog from hell.
it comes like the tide,
it never leaves,
whether it is satiated or not,
it's always there,
creeping,
waiting,
throbbing,
what terrible stuff.
if to truly love
one must ****
then love is not worth it,
then love itself is futile,
to give is nothing
and to reciprocate is nothing
in the face of eternity,
i am so tired of it,
let it stop.