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“Sex Sells” prose poem by Stephen J. Dawson Jr.

Sex Sells by Stephen J. Dawson Jr.

Heads up. Underneath the whimsy and humorous prose style, it’s kind of fucked up and you may not appreciate it.

 

Sex sells and, Hell, even the most well will entertain the cheap thrill of hiding ill wills and I exploit this to help pay the bills and afford all the pills that keep these demons at bay. As long as you pay, I’ll write ’til I’m grey and waste all my time plotting heinous crimes in a bastardised prose with internal rhyme. It seems, in my genes, there’s a perv (whose will my bones serve) that will stop by no means to tear at the seams of your high-waisted jeans. Sex sells catchy hooks much better than books but I don’t wish for the fame that will expose my good looks. I keep myself tame and suppose that’s okay for if I do as I may, I’ll lay down my body and beg, “don’t you lay!” Behind bars and cold prison yards, I’ll get down on my knees, whimper a, “please,” but not because I pray. My prey put me here, deprived me of beer (the worst of my fears), and now this is where I stay. That is if I had my way. But, by God! I found verse! It carries this curse and all of my readers will continue to pay.

– Stephen J. Dawson Jr.

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