She Says My Last Poem was Appalling

That’s me doing my finest Alan Dugan.

You think it approaches the profane,
but it’s the best I can do
under the present circumstances.

Yes, it stretches the bounds of good
taste and decency.
But what better subject to explore
than one’s own decadent desires?

Dugan crapped
on the couch cushions
after his mind burglarized
a couple of homes,
honoring art in all of its stinking glory.

Poems should be full
of such fecund imagination.
If I write about uncouth things,
it’s a bit much, I confess.

I aim for an elegant way to express
the inexpressible power of animal
lust in one man’s body.
I’m not always proud to admit it.

I should slink around like a dirty
old man, but the poem’s the thing
and it has to sing its own song.
I’m just trying to stay out of its way.

Damn poems run around
and grab ass and tease
until the shrieks reach my ears,
then I have to express regret
for the way my hands
touch you through the lines.