Citric Safety

Little Barbara told me
on that day, on that red
and white checkered table
cloth, she said slyly, “
There is no safety
in lemonade.”

No safety, no chance.
No naked, nihilistic napping.
No flip-flops, fried chicken
Fellatio, Fornication.

If safety cannot be found
in Lemonade,
then why does little Barbara
sell a Dixie cup: 2 oz
for $2.00 on the corner?
Why do I pay?

I need the safety dance.
I need lemony freshness.
I need conjugal visits. I need
Condoms, thinly disguised
As cum-buckets

Maybe little Barbara
Is a filthy little whore,
a little lying bitch
who drinks cum by the gallon

and spits it into her
golden ambrosia.
Maybe I have sperm
swimming in my stomach,
dying in my guts

My little unsafe sperm
Hung, stabbed
Drowned and shot

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