The MeatHeads are Right On

I haven't wings on my head
or the horns of the devil
I've read books about the twelve
tasted the hemlock of rejection
and ridden once on a white horse
nearly resulting in my own
trampling

Boring to the ladies, apparently.

All experiences turn insipid
with the passage of time
Lately one thing alone
reassures my own existence
upon this sphere:
Listening to Rob Zombie
whilst weightlifting.

Muscles and beats are the pump. My mind the siphon.

Words Actions Speak Louder Than

Fishy

She is turned on by fish. Can you really blame her?

She's not an ichthyosexual, no!  I just mean figuratively.  I mean she can wolf down a huge stack of steaming perch filets with capers and that would be the highlight of her whole week.

I will tell you what literally turns her on:

Nothing.

Pleasure is a self-serving myth.

TROLL

I am troll. Hear me mock.
Your sacred love/God/slut is not safe from me.

I am public.  Hear me yell.
The troll tripped me up and down I fell.

I am Quincy, upper class.
I picked John Q. Public's pockets fast!

Hey it's me, the public again,
I'm angry and broke and mad as sin!
My sluts are mocked, my pockets bare,
I'm going rioting in the downtown square.

I'm another on the hill,
inspired by rioter's iron will
My truest feelings from deepest heart
I'll post them here!
(now go back to the start.)

Quincy touches the horseshoe obliquely. Loves
the feel.
Iron-clad will faces the stiffening rock.
J.Q. Public lost his sock.