My mojo is gone. Not that I sacrifice it for writing, it just dissipates into thin air. I think we can have both a mojo and the ability to write. But, I have needs and if those aren’t met, well, this vessel has no interest in his sex. I could watch porn or make my own. But when the wrong images flash before me it dries my insides right out. It’s a finicky thing, my sex. There’s people I want to see, things I want to hear, and without that, I’m nothing more than a monthly baby maker. He says please and that he can’t change what I see in my head, but he knows what I want. And I’m losing my patience. He should just give it to me so we can stop all this mediocrity and terrible poetry. Feed me words feed me your fingers and remove whatever it is you find in the back of my throat. Cave drawings, cryptic messages, Morse codes. It’s not this or that or some magic ritual it’s you, poet, it’s only you that I want.

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