Blue Lode

Procreation relegated to a spectator sport
Masturbation elevated to best, most favorite sort
Of release and it doth cease
The desire, the entire need for a conversation among flesh of beasts
Stroking takes nary a minute
As the keyboard responds to my digits
I, well-oiled machine, sheathed in an ichor of self-gratification
Power on my well-oiled machine used to display sensation
Had by 1, 2, 3, 4 and often several more, well-oiled machines after several preparations
In which prior to their publication they oiled their moving parts with greed, glamour, and self expression for lubrication
Everything needs to be a little easier to swallow, easier for penetration
Both for self and others
Because friction utterly stutters the structures one uses for one's process
Yet the progress is autonomous and self-contained
Disdained by others at times, bottomless is my inner lake
That perfect spot of spit, placed among sweat to wet the pages
Between my legs proves harmony of my dichotomy
Autonomous automatons, alone-together with a polity of others
Inward drawn, probably plotting on how best to draw out their next stroke of genius
By and on the lives of well-oiled machinists
Sword in hand, smooth and soft channels
Lord, Master of my domain, manual labor
Handywork, savored for and by the craftsmen
Whittling and whittling, with no desire to craft men
a product that could impact
other well oiled machines
Doing the math, all the crude black blood creates an impasse
When making a diamond
Kindling my menora's eternal light
With the oil from my labia minora
Ejaculating an aura from my organ
Seminal, this solo of fingertip and lip cadenzas
As i touch my feminine side, somehow this concert of one lends a sense of community
Its own invented unity
My penis coming for ebon eyes to see
To ebonize tissue with the blot of my ink,
Mine, lustrous lode now blue