VGL

Sifting through the remnants of the culture we digest,
As tortured paraplegic hockey players wine about their aching stumps.
Pounding heads bereft of advil,
Advised to hide, entranced by Fruits-of-the-Loom gone sour.

They called you vicious before you bared your teeth,
Hiding your latent tendencies like a monk in heat.
Veiled vortex formerly know as your liver,
Hiding your pride with a big bourbon shiver.

Boldly in the face of your lecture I declare,
Seventeen years of avoiding being bare,
My favorite award winning ham will always be Mare,
Stuck in the John Hughes stage of panty worship.

My dilated ruples make protrusions in your abdomen,
When Churchill's legacy foams at the mouth,
From milky thighs divorced from gender,
Just try and stop using the World Trade Center to define south.

Mega maniacal menstruating morticians 
reap profits while sewing cesarian sections,
But Anthony Hopkins version of a violent ventriloquist,
Is still more convincing than your maudlin regret of no foreskin.
More skin lifted in the name of regained youth,
More yellow lifted off of your front tooth.

If vgl stands for vaginal, than there's less misogyny in hand.
Which is course,  impossibly absurd.

{POETRY}