Just like movies that twist your balls
by the sheer weight of their topic
(such as hope during the sinking
hours of the Titanic or Bill Himself
in love), there is poetry that kills
those tender male organs or their
female equivalent. Robert Lowell,
Frank O'Hara wrote, was good for
that. And of course something with
solid oven imagery about the poet's
end will do a reasonably good job.
Pardon me for being facetious,
tasteless and crude and lacking depth.
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