Drunken 4th of July shit/epic poetry collaboration

So, I escaped the Alabamas briefly and they even let me over the Mason Dixon line this time (suckers!) and I was celebrating the 4th via a wedding and debauchery with a couple other writers. The other writers, who may be named later, if they do collaborate with me, were, like me, in various stages of inebriation and talking to inanimate objects that must have been cutting loose for the 4th, too. I mean, this one coffee table wanted me to get down and old school disco. Must have been the Marxist baller's champagne my friends liberated from his Commie-bougie grasp...

Any cook should be able to run the country; but give a Marxist baller Cook's and you'll get some serious yakking.

Anyways, we were sitting around drinking Lenin's champagne from the bottle and talking about poetry. You know we were drunk if we were talking about poetry. Who ever talks about poetry? We decided to create an epic persona(s) poem. The characters are not based loosely on anyone in the poetry world (disclaimer). But we are down with hip-hopping, butter-loving, laureating Billy C and we have created a protege for hip-hop Billy C with the sexy-tattoo name of Kim Addoniz.

And I know I've promised my serial sell-out novel to begin soon soon soon on this site, but I love teasing and anticipation, don't you? I love it when guys accuse me of giving them blue balls. That's happened only once, actually, because I like sex a lot and usually jump into bed immediately unless the guy's too aggressive or too frat boy or looks like he don't know what the fuck to do with a pussy besides a 5 minute missionary session, and my friend, who's also a writer but wasn't with us drinking champagne on the 4th, was passing out in my living room and she heard this twenty year old say that to me that one time and she shouted, Come in here and I'll give ya a handjob for fuck's sake... It was awesome and I should always have someone around who'll clean up my messes for me...

The following may be a mess, but the following characters are fictional and in no way resemble or are living poets in the U.S. (disclaimer, again). Parts of the epic poem may be written in form, some may be free, none will be chronological and the title is, of course, working... (hint, hint...my comrades in the poetry struggle).

First epic poem for you two in Milwaukee's Best         

I like to touch your osso buco and your
billy beard. I know by heart the curling
hairs and the marrow I suck down nightly,
your old man nipple and the hip hop heart
you try to hide beneath that cool jazz veneer.
We are too beautiful and we'll take our
shit to Bremen Street; we'll flagrante delicto

(Ok, comrades who steer me clear from poetic sell-outdom, your turn...feel free to add on in the comments or email me or whatever...)

Yours w/out any questions about angels,
Ry