Unspent Testosterone

[heslopian]

The sound of organs steals my breath,
hides it in a bag marked 'swag.'
We lie together like store bought roses,
tied against a lamppost, in commemoration of some horror.

That time we were mere escaped convicts,
thunderous sounds across the pine of your log cabin,
running round, running round,
we destroyed the furniture, lay amidst it's ruins,
useless watermelon seeds soaked every stick,
tired, faded, we breathed and breathed,
then did it all again.

How we could have carried on,
emptying ourselves like slaughtered hogs,
different penetrations, again and again,
screams, cries, you called my name more times than a teacher,
and I submitted. I enjoyed that most of all. The submission.

I kid, I kid. We never were, of course.
I still buy flowers for my own left hand.
Hopeless virgin, I strum that violin to old blues and jazz,
sometimes Roy Orbison, or a little Elvis Presley
(but no conversation, no action, nor even the hillbilly jive)
I wonder dear hand, dear sainted finger, if either of us are really alive?