Hmm, midnight rant.

All alone at the keyboard and
the only comfort is the clackity
clack of keystrokes.
Yabbida, yabbida, yabbida,
I could go on forever but
will only for a little while instead.
My right first molar is split down the middle.
It had a big filling that's
started to fragment, leaving
a jagged chasm which fills
with food on the first bite
and the second bite
pounds it into the gap between
the teeth and the third
grinds it into the
subcutaneous pocket
between teeth and gum.
It will inflame in less than a day.
Salt water irrigation,
hydrogen peroxide rinse,
saline flush,
incessant flossing
and the pain still won't subside.
The dentist won't see me
'cause I owe him too much money.
I shouldn't owe him so much money.
I shouldn't have the right
side of my face on fire.
I shouldn't let the oil
in my car get low on the dipstick.
I shouldn't wear red lace
brassieres under my white work shirts.
And I should never go walking
on the beach in black velvet spike pumps.
However I shall never wear panties
under my skirts,
I shall never wear skirts
and the reason Levi's have buttons
is so you never get your Johnson
caught in the zipper,
unlike my canvas boat shorts
with the thousand tooth monster
brass zipper from hell with
a penchant for nibbling
on my intimate privates
not when you're zipping up,
but giving you a painful pinch
as you unzip and aren't
expecting any pain.
There is no justice sometimes.
At least I don't get nasty marks
on my tits where the underwire
pinches at the ends.
Oh my, what am I talking about.
Nevermind, more than a mouthful
is a waste, bullshit.
I love to watch them bounce in cadence.
I like how sometimes they sway
in slow step gyration,
precious jiggling pools
demanding attention, yet
other ones scream silently,
"Don't look at me!"
I'd say I much prefer
the perky pointers
with shoulders thrown back
in a dare to stare strut and
a soft unassuming smile
of acknowledgment when
you are caught entranced
and staring as you pass
each other on a crowded street.
Wiggle while you work,
it's the dangle of the little stone,
or diamond, or silver cross, or golden starfish, or glass
lightning pendant resplendent at the edge
of the cleavage that's invitational
in tank tops too short
to cover the stud pierced
carefully in your navel,
accentuating the flatness
of your all too young belly.
Do you know what you're doing?
I'm not sure you do,
but I don't really care,
I really do.
No matter.
Biology and psychology mix it up
in tantric centers outside the libido as well,
I just know they do.