Baby can I make you wet? Can I so inspire you that the creative juices locked inside of you are unleashed. As if they have been bound for a thousand year eternity the spring forward from the touch of my quill. Can I flip out your mind and send you on a psychedelic trip that only a true poetic progenitor might explore? If I dipped my quill into your inkwell and trust with passion and stroked with syncopation, the membranes of your orifice of orgasmic flow, would you explode into a tremor of poetic delight? Would you, if tapped that ink well? Would the points of my passion, the pressure of my points so inspire you to scream from your very soul the essence of an ejaculatory, orgasmic, su-per-cali-fragil-istic-ex-pi-al-i-do-coius, verse that cause both you and I to sway the crowd, the crowd you’d say ‘cause I touched the place, that once was safe and unleashed a sleeping queen of verse, a Nubian quillite that would cause the crowd to rise and fall at voices call and we would cum simultaneously, synchronically, and we’d leave the carpet of our emotional experience soaked ‘cause your well took my quill? Ohhhh - a poetic thrill – poetic delight! Or maybe through me coming to the entrance and yet not fully penetrating your innermost soul, we could build an anticipation that would so cause you to gyrate and dip your hips to a beat that has not come to full rhythm but yet you find a rhythm – a rhythm of rhyme, a beat of beats, that beat my drum and drum my beat and ink well creates a lyrical masterpiece that drips juices so rhythmically complete that I sway to your beat, and weak becomes my knee, and my heart beats, I pant of passion of passion I pant and my head spins 360 degrees in an exorcistic experience that draws the last hint of my poetic spirit from me. The quintessence of we poetry! Can I pen a discourse of intercourse on your white satin sheets with my bald point pen, my quill, your thrill as our lines cross -across the boundaries of exotic, erotic thought and flip the script from front to back, back to front, with twisted-slamming bodies of verse, line after line, from bottom to top, line upon line, after line after line, a story-line immersed in a collaboration of the masculine and feminine voice vibin’ in our masuc-femininity as you become quill and I become your sweet sheet as and you scribe my master-piece as we pen a page of euphoric poetic essence. **** Poet! You’re dripping! Baby shall we write?