.
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.”
..
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