The Sex Thing perversely had got
him. He was sixty-seven years old!
How had he suddenly turned into hot?
Temperate, pale, grey more than gold,
he now causes trances: his glance claws
its way to the gut of a male. He’s a sexual
destiny now! Surely this breaks the laws
of what’s apt, defies the contextual
walls meant to stop him from acting
as if he could ever be ardently loved
for his flesh: instead this exacting
profusion of lusts, lavishly shoved
into bulges, tumescently running
a new porno show – but whose?
He feels like a puppet, a stringed thing,
lit match in the dark: but he’ll choose
to excite and incite till he can’t. Some
fiat decrees: don’t buy only sell,
keep the dough. Don’t let And become
But. Let heaven keep giggling at hell.
If rhymes made him up, they’d be easy
and languid. They’d sway, and they’d say:
“Be as breezy as we and as subtly sleazy.
If it wants you, don’t get in its way.”.