This is a poem about my nipples.
I call it "Titillation" because that's a pun
and people pretending to be poets
use puns as the illiterati use memes:
to prove how clever we are.
So prepare to be impressed.
My nipples are erect all the time.
So reliably erect, when nothing else is.
In thin silky shirts they are steeples.
In thick cotton pullovers they are pimples.
Are they impressions that misleadingly point to titillation?
Or are they just sad signs for all to see
that my world has become cold?
I'm pretty sure that's a metaphor,
which again showcases my cleverness -
something I desperately want to convey.
You'll also find
I did not rhyme.
People pretending to be poets
don't do that anymore.
It's crass.
And, yes, I know.
By writing about my nipples
I risk being accused of indulgence
and narcissism.
But that's a risk
people pretending to be poets
are perfectly happy to take.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
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Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 
I prepared to be impressed, but you didn’t prepare me to be this delighted!
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Haha. Thanks very much.
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I’m certainly glad you took that risk!
Gwen.
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Thanks, Gwen.
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I was barely holding in a laugh, but lost it when I got here: “People pretending to be poets
don’t do that anymore./ It’s crass.” Hah!
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Thanks, Stacey.
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You have inspired me to talk about my nipples. When I used to be able to run very long distances, the friction (especially in the rain) would cause them to bleed. The only thing I knew to do was slather them in Vaseline. But I sure felt odd doing it. And I stained all my running shirts. I was careful not to rhyme anything in this comment.
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Haha. I am now afraid that I will never get this image out of my head.
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