Poetry


Tuesday, December 15 , 2009


the warden.
john-patrick ayson


from one channel to another, the warden switches, pauses,
yawns - pokes his right nostril with his left ring finger - 

lends his attention to the first thirteen seconds of
an infomercial for a newer, safer, pseudo-silicone
breast implant procedure --- picks & eyes, in one stroke,
then sniffs the gray lint he collected inside his bellybutton --- skips two, passes three more channels,

rids his eyes of sleep snot by gouging them with the same
finger he used previously --- reverts to the channel where
the infomercial for a newer, safer, pseudo-silicone
breast implant procedure was showing --- now three minutes
& thirty eight seconds in --- unbuckles the clasps
of his suspenders, unzips his starched, crispy pants,

tries to remove them completely --- but stalls at the knees 

distracted by a draft, meandering through
the half opened window, on the western side of his posh, redwood floored office --- he peels his sticky elbows
& the rest of his burly, lopsided upper body
off of his antique, tamaraw leather seat -

cradles his pants with his left hand, sans thumb
nor pinky --- paces to the window --- ogles,
smirks, then grunts at the lessening, though still
boisterous, relentless crowd, gathered beyond
the wired fence of his new, territorial jurisdiction -

shuts the window --- pulls the blinders’ cord, paces back
to his leather seat, drops his pants - reclines -
refocuses on the screen ---  then starts to rub ---
then stroke --- his meek, barely-erect dick ---

only to squirt two pathetic drops of cum -
twenty seven seconds, after the riot ensues

 

*****

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