By popular demand…sorry, mom.
As a means to redeem (or quite possibly further bury) myself, here are some old poems of mine that are somehow fitting…though his robe is not.
Sex is not silvery slender.
We do it under
a moonstruck moon.
it’s the same chow pigs do.
though we like to pretend.
that class has done wonders.
I wonder at the grinding hinges.
Ribs must lust after tibias,
femur after fibula—despite
Slim-pickin’s for them lonely bones.
There’s so much pink that divides us.
No, no, you are not meant to turn it.