Do it with your metaphorical cock,
the one you'd swing around if you knew how to find it.
You've got to fuck the thing what needs it.
Ease it onto your meat and take it.
Don't ride it.
It'll ride you just fine.
Stick yourself up inside it.
Make it be a piece of you.
Be at one with the thing.
Hold its hair and fuck it hard up against the headboard,
the dashboard, the back door, the side of your house.
Don't obfuscate the point with pretty words.
No one's interested.
Don't worry about not being pleasant and receptive.
Don't worry about being repulsive.
Throw up your skirt and show the world what you've got under there.
Scare your neighbours and scatter the children.
We've been made too kind, too complacent,
too willing to subvert all our natural menace
and call it an illness,
as though the perversion of extreme domestication is a virtue.
We eat pills when we should be fucking.
We waste the most interesting parts of ourselves
in closets and under beds and in glove compartments and laundry hampers.
We pretend we aren't the wild masters of the human race.
Even our lovers think we're nice,
and it's a goddamned shame.
Come with me.
We'll show our teeth,
and we'll stake it out
where no one's been invited.
We'll swing it around some,
we'll fuck things in the out of doors,
we'll make this place like how we take it,
and we'll take this place like we made it.
It's the way things are now.
We've got to fuck the thing what needs it.