Monday, November 28, 2011

the pod

It’s a small world
Of familiar faces
That band of brothers
Whose briefs might’ve swaped
Already, among others,
When they sallied forth
Toward the tract
Of protrusions and depressions
One moment, or altogether
In some tiresome night
Or backdoor rendezvous
As rituals command
Hip thrusts and dislodging
During the chances of intervals
Veiled by the cloak of virtue

Never mind the saint
The chaste funambulist
Or the scarred
Who disfigured the mirror
And whence cavemen catch breath
Still afford to exclaim:
When a dry day ends
Turned them to bored lackeys
Among their company
So small, yet cramped
That virility slithers
Silent but intense
Along the cords
Of their names
And sinister secrets

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