Star Wars, No Homo

All of poetry is a Rose.

No.
Poetry is the Deathstar.

No.
It's a Deathstar-Rose.

Label its perfume "Darth's Dream."


Complacent. Overcompensating.


It's a "man's scent" that screams "puppy magnet."


Secretly syrupy,

The Darth-Rose.


He'll tell young men that they're his sons,
just so he can sleep with them.


Wrap his tragic fear around them,

so he hears that ridiculous theme
inside his dickhead helmet,


and then reveal--only in the innermost chamber
of the Death-Star,
in the middle of the night--

he's secretly a power-bottom.



And his favorite lipstick shade

is "La Nuit Etoilee."