An Attempt at an Erotic Poem in the Modern Style

Join me, on a vision quest to justify the "extreme content" warning while maintaining a shred of integrity...

The coarse and leisurely curve of your buttock,
as I stroke it longingly, is a skilled raconteur,
which is just another phrase meaning colourful liar.
Between those plump and sandy hillocks
lies a dark valley so claustrophobic,
my anxiety melts just imagining it
as it suffocates its prisoner, a certain appendage
of mine, which grows to love its jailer.

'A tight, plump, hairy arse.'
That was always atop my Christmas list.

(Santa stopped writing back pretty fast.)

Well, that's not exactly true...
Also a big fat cock 'round the side,
something to grab when a hand wanders off.

(Remember, too, to load it with plenty
of ammunition; I want to have
to turn the laundry machine up
to full power, anti-stain, one below dousing
the sheets in holy water and converting
to Puritanism as penance.)

My lover, a sunset, flowers, and wine...
Are these romantic knicker-knacks
needed to prove that, once for all,
I won't pull out and finish in your hair?

Oh, my sweet and naive one,
take off that silly baseball cap.
As I cling to your back and pump like an ape,
as I grunt in your ear with the fierceness of hate,
as the fact slips my mind that you're human at all,
I'll be too busy draining the evil burden,
digging its grave in the valley,
to concern myself with position and aim.

Though imagining you, red with hand prints,
furious yet too well shagged to complain (just now),
soaked in the greasy white contents of my balls,
is an idea that a poet might appreciate...

after he's grown sick of poems, that is.