a poem by Brandon Marlon

Preoccupied with the solitary and dark task of

cunnilingus, I was struck by the inkling that I

had left the back-left burner on yet again, good grief,

and that when filing my recent tax return I might have

claimed additional and legitimate home office deductions

for furniture, telephone charges, and electricity usage

—no insignificant matter, mind you.

---

To the sound of syncopated moans it suddenly dawned

on me that dryer lint removal was long overdue,

rather like my public library books on gardening for beginners

and Artaud's early essays (translated, naturally).

---

Admittedly, as we swung from the chandeliers

with abandon it detracted somewhat from my delight

to note the black mould menacing the ceiling

I just had renovated to the tune of five figures,

damn those overpriced, radio-blaring contractors to hell.

---

Imagine if you would my mid-coital surprise—which

unfortuitously occurred at the precise moment my privy part,

full-fledged and magnificent, geysered like Old Faithful—

when I coincidentally reminded myself to replace

homogenized milk with soy or almond beverage

on my grocery list, as several of my expected lunch guests

next week are lactose intolerant and vengeful.

---

Starry-eyed and dazed, my partner appeared especially

stoked by the rigors of our passion and,

on the whole, I wholeheartedly concurred,

cognizant of the benefits of productive diversion.

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