There's this story I like telling
about a girl who refused to give it up to me.
By 'it' I of course mean the soft wet
ridges of pussy I pursue from anecdote
to anecdote, no, this one only let me as
far as the interior of her mouth.
As good and vaginal as that is I was
resentful
and wanked off into her shining clean
beautiful hair as she slept.

Funny, I find no satisfaction
in imagining her face
when she woke alone with sticky stiff hair.
Like hairgel, if I was to use that
dreadful pop culture trope.

Now I feel the silt of this manmade pond
with my toes,
snap bugs off the surface of the water,
stand on one leg and eye off passers by.

It feels indecent, all this wild stagnant water.
If my feathers weren't waterproof
I'd be all gunked up,
defiled, even.
Every bit a worm-eating prey animal.

Once I was such a slab of man, furious
when I really got going
in the name of music. You'd see the
whites of my eyes and the
tendons in my neck and the
sweat bubble to my skin. Fucking scary.

Now all I can do is hiss,
pink duck tongue stretchng into space,
as people giggle at my boat-shaped body,
my ludicrous feet, my quavering,
enraged
quack.