Is this a fist I see which approaches my face
with steroid-assisted velocity?
Or is this a fist of the mind, an immaculate conception,
gestating in a beer-soaked brain?

This is a poem about my nipples.
I call it “Titillation” because that’s a pun
and people pretending to be poets
use puns as the illiterati use memes:
to prove how clever we are.
So prepare to be impressed.