Is the art of writing good art  

to lose all inhibition  

like Sharon Olds 

with her detailed,  

anatomical odes to her 

mother, carving with 

syllables the cave she exited

and the nipple she drew  

milk and blood from?  

Visceral, strangely alluring,  

profoundly deep. I could 

do the same, write a  

sonnet about my cock,  

the trials and fire I put  

him through, 

personifying him,  

and then forming a  

transcendental connection, 

but unlike 

Olds I’m not well known  

enough to get away with 

a salacious rant, however 

promising it might be. 

If my words 

adorned the pages of books 

and magazines, they’d garland me, 

say, What depth! And from a  

fiendish, voyeuristic

vantage point too!

But here in the cyberspace,  

they’ll think I’m mad like 

the naysayers on FB, 

ready to pounce, tear me apart  

and then not do me the honour 

of at least feeding

on my carcass. 




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