The Couch

I need a new couch,
mine’s soiled with semen.
Some blood underneath,
an egg I was creaming.
I’ve made one fat mess,
Of that couch, so profound.
And now it’s just safer
to sleep on the ground.
The ladies forewarned,
refuse to stay over.
No school-girls nor hookers
will play as my lover.
And when I find out
who’s spilling the beans.
Their insides will soak,
that couch to its seams.
I’ll play like their sockets
have married my fingers.
Their smells I’ve grown used too
constantly lingers.
Though once they’ve dried out,
their bones I will take.
And creatively mend,
a new couch, I shall make.
Lined with their flesh,
dyed deep, a dark shade.
Then laze back contently,
till the first stain is made.

All Poems © 2001-2007 Blister Herzog, all rights reserved.