i approach you with a shirt full of freshly drying sweat
and i hope for the sake of human civilization
that the smile on your face is no sincere indication
that if i ask you to be a slut, you will say yes

it's the instinct of a bottom feeder
to deprive a woman of the little joys of mutual destruction
of the light heart-felt play of tease and the giggle of attraction
but the trophy on my wall shines on through the heavy hours of quiet typing

the labor of mining for an intelligent connection
amongst well-read but dull accomplices in some mutated version of a progressive movement
whose brain cells swim in a rhyme-free stew with the viscosity of cracked cement
is tiring to the point where a run that fills the shirt with sweat is uniquely liberating