my favorite swampmaids
find me in my deep backyard
smoking near the steaming forest
correcting a political essay.
I pass the joint and slide
the notebook under a tent flap,
they tease my fine abstracted state
and pull my dick out of my pants
to resume their entertainment.
Swamptessa, Tychia and Bloodteeth
come to me for poetry,
the sport that men provide
and the milk that makes children.
We beat the long grasses down
to curving strands
in the twilight of my worldly errands.
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