sonnet 131

we Art barbaric, as primal be in Art's animal glow
as them whose lustre, fetching, makes them snotty 

for you who drool upon the rack, like goats at mow,
you are but canvas, unprimed, for forms pure naughty. 

some richer lads cheer a face that scans more than smiles;
to say they're full of shit i'd rather do a hiss, 

tho i print it in a fluid, bobbing in an ink beguiles
a yellow pungent flower, born of herself: porn to kiss. 

we can be sure, entranced with boobjob perk
to overlook the bruises, from slinging around the pole, 

slapping assmeat for attention, not subtle work
we brute laborers are the first to cajole: 

     yer dance 

 art white, save in thy bleeds
     &in this plunder, what you call pArticipation, exceeds.