Coitus Without Interruptus

Did a great job, this boredom,
of transcending similes
ejaculated on a tissue paper
into a means of sulking one’s self
not up to death
but up to an ultimate organismal perfection.
Because greed for perfection
happens to kill a person
only a little smoother than
decaying one’s viscera
by facilitating a one-man,
9 days constipation marathon.
Doom thyself by multiplying
the number of the passing cockroaches
by the number of times
Erap Estrada would be
applauded for his political
and psychological indolences,
Or might as well cheer up!
Exhilarate thy own self
by gathering another
roll of tissue paper,
a hand-full of Vaseline,
just incase thy palm
comes in need of lubricant,
and a functional, fully-inked tech-pen.
On this night, the comfort room
is the more decent place to be.

Better be the first person to write poetry about
how a grandpa, in the middle of a hypothalamic stimulatory phase,
at the bosom of a teenage potential queen of the estrus cannibalism,
lived life to its lengthiest extent, un-incapacitated by any mortal limitations;
and about how he ended it just as how the general society prescribes it to be:

extroverted.

Upright.

Productive.