I crave to masturbate my pen,
let it turkey slap virgin pages,
‘til it comes ink on her face-
leaving a trail-
of words,
and she is altered forever-
mine.
Or rekindle my
affair with the keyboard,
let my fingers finger and stimulate
her 105 clitorides
hitting the spot right,
making prose squirt on the sheets.
Yet, at this moment,
I am at war with the pen,
with the keyboard,
with the wallet screaming
at me,
demanding
a catchy tagline,
a decent copy
a call to action.
I sit back for a moment,
and glimpse at my friend
from the other department,
a cubicle away.
I watch one of my children
getting crucified by Adobe InDesign-
the executioner plays a loud song,
and gives a deep sigh of frustration-
he once flirted with comic books,
and if he’d like a ménage à trois,
I might join in-
but never in the creation of
storyboards,
no thanks.

Right now,
twins are being born:
a newsletter,
and a brochure-
the bastard sons of anguish,
boredom
and need-

and of course,

the company's greed. 

He looks at me,
I give a thumbs up sign,
he answers back with
a middle finger.
I acknowledge him with expletives,
we both smile.
But brief moments of play must end,
with my cravings and desires-
the devil storms in,

“presentation in 20 minutes!”