Please, fuck me at high noon. You shall wear a cowboy hat and I shall wear an accumulation of your poetry, decorating my mind like so much delicate lace. The scent of your underwear hangs under my nose, like so many overused expressions in a paragraph. It brings out the animalistic side of the sacred (and ever so valid) nature/culture divide like so many misplaced metaphors in bad poetry. And, haiku, my heart is on fire.

The scent of my drenched crotch sitting around your head and hence perfuming the world, you shall draw out the animals. I propose you acquire a license in the Pied Piper Department. Now you can fuck me on the back of a horse which is galloping into the sunset.

xoxo,

Jane Torpedo