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
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 