I’m in a conversation

with a lovely lady about masturbation.

Her tales of vibration

combined with her breast implantation

lead to infatuation

that quickly becomes frustration

when she begins to talk about her occupation.

Goodbye, excitation!

 

I am overcome with a sensation.

I need to pee. Urination.

“Miss, please excuse my evacuation

from this riveting talk about your vocation

that may lead to mouth-to-mouth recessitation

or premature ejaculation

and accidental procreation

but I need to use the urination station.”

Cue nonparticipation.

 

Searching for emancipation

(No need for proclamation)

from my bladder’s limitation.

Regretting my use of libation

as I make the realization

I may wet myself. Vivid visualization…

Bust through the door in search of liberation.

Whip it out and commence irrigation.

Relief settles in. Relaxation.

 

In enters a member of civilization.

Stands next to me. That’s a violation!

(Pardon my punctuation)

I would love for a reorganization

of our urination delegation.

Life is unfair. Victimization.

We stand suffering from mental constipation.

I break the ice. “Looking at my cock?” Unsubstantiated allegation.

He is not thrilled with my interrogation.

“It’s a line from Step Brothers.” Making it worse. Exacerbation.

Note to self: don’t make rash insinuation,

some people take it as character assassination.

When alcohol meets man you get a lethal combination

of overcompensation,

instigation,

and possible hospitalization.

Gotta do some improvization.

“Well. See you later.” Mobilization.

 

Back to the bar post-sanitation.

After a brief investigation,

I find my friends and give my urinal evaluation

“He had a free choice and he made the wrong one. The downsides of democratization.

Why give everyone in the world that choice? Suck a fat one, globalization.”

People suck. That’s my generalization.

Place my anger on probation.

And return to recreation.

Can’t find my lady. Demasculation.

We weren’t meant to be. Rationalization.

Chug a beer at the bar as an act of mitigation.

Leads to me decrying our culture of individualization,

unabashed litigation,

and selective vilification

producing an ironic standardization

of the population.

I’m talking to a chair. Low-key personification.

 

Lean on the chair for stabilization.

Recount the navigation

and randomization

that lead to this moment of thorough intoxication.

Then comes philosophical recitation,

Why does the media prefer indoctrination?

“we need to fix immigration”

“locals pushed out by gentrification”

“cops displaying discrimination

by asking for personal information

and registration”

“how about this Islamic nation”

“jobs being taken over by automation”

and the classic “no taxation

without representation.”

I don’t understand the fascination

with Hillary’s email communication

or Caitlyn’s gender identification.

I feel assaulted by information.

A slave in this virtual plantation.

I need a media vacation.

 

Is this all just some fabrication

of my imagination?

Work all day for a corporation

Worried about monetization

But what about the ramification

of my domestication?

I fear stagnation.

I should do more meditation.

I long for innovation.

I’m looking for inspiration

when I make the observation…

my lady with the breast augmentation

has returned. So without hesitation,

comes the re-initiation

of my flirtation.

Isn’t this world such a marvelous creation?

Sorry for the rumination.

In summation,

I suffer from overstimulation.