***** he stands; (he has no midnight plans, but one). From stroke of dawn, to coming dusk he plays himself the song of lonesome hands: first lost, then found, himself alone in lust. The pleasure passes quickly; shaft will fret through spasms rushing body (stiff and red) ‘till passion splurging, flying – white and wet – then falls to bed in blissful blank of head. The dripping love and ecstasy, once mine, has gone and passed – the small false-death of rhyme;so still, I sit, past stupor *** divine: (the ***-less *** that’s made for private time). So help yourself, but please, take note of this: to play is fun – but nothing like a kiss!
one of my first sonnets. wrote it out of spite for my poetry teacher. now we are good friends.