If I were a conglomeration of printed words

Testament to the diligence of many long nights,

You’d be the four-foot-tall dick

Onto which I am tenderly papier-mâchéd Laid down by your hands like a dame to the bed

Bound together in sticky white harmony.

For if I were the ball of chicken wire

Unrolled slowly so hands can graze me

And soft skin find itself nicked

In a sacrifice to the ultimate human emotion,

You would be the many nimble fingers

That recreate anatomical impossibility.

And if I were a finished product that stands erect,

Engulfed by crosswords and shitty advice columns,

You would be the dirty carpet upon which

My two humungous balls now sit,

Waiting to be carried into a new life

By a Creator who gazes upon me with veneration.

Oh, woe is me, for despite your great praise,

I am but a cold-hearted creature in this universe,

Praying for the flesh and blood that evades my being,

And relegates me to an effigy of sinful mischief!

An emblem of an irrepressible vengeance

That takes the soul payment, check to Lucifer!

So I yearn for absolution, for cosmic intention,

For a raison d’être as this patriarchal mascot,

Until I find salvation in the quiet of an evening,

Hanging with glory like a flag in the wind, F

or when I set my eyes forward to the horizon,

I am but the dick, and you are but my domain.