misha writes.
a lot.

For The Artist Who Paints My Balls Fifty Shades Of Blue

Just when I get some steam built, when I’m feeling

like an architect of steam, ready to vaporize

inside you, you say slow down, which isn’t easy.

There are no power brakes in the genitals, 

no runaway boner ramps. I flop onto my back.

The blood marches single-file down the long, 

winding staircase of my cock, like an emergency

evacuation of the Washington Monument

during the height of tourist season. My testicles

ache like a boxer’s punching bag. I wish a bell

would ding, and a bald Italian guy with ice packs

and smelling salts would hop into the ring

of our desire and give me a pep talk, remind me

to work on the clitoris, like the ribs of Apollo Creed. 

Jeffrey McDaniel