There is less lyric in pyric passions
Explosive, explicit, exotic dance
Some syllabic maze to navel-gaze on,
Swallowing a shallow, callow cadence.
When the deeper you feel, the more you drool
And as high as some bird flies in the sky
There's somewhere, somehow, some similar fool
Achieving states of ecstasy as high.
Instead, use emotional propulsion
Let this be surrendered to the rudder
Thence to the tiller of our tongue, your pen,
Confer your soul: seek emancipation.
Ejaculation is as sure as spit
Show me your poetry, don't just write it.