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?

[billy]

The sound of organs steals my breath,
hides it in a bag marked 'swag',
you're my engineer,
crowbars and spanners heal these wounds, [these 2 lines lost me ]
and we lie together like store bought roses,
tied against a lamppost, in commemoration of some horror. the rest of this verse was great

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. [nicely done, love the image of the seeds]

How we could have carried on,
emptying ourselves like slaughtered hogs, [another simile might work better]
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. [very heavy and it feels very honest]

I kid, I kid. We never were, of course.
I still buy flowers for my own left hand. [for me this line doesn't fit in and could go, it sort of takes away from the poem penetration (jmo) ]
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?[this one could go as well]

apart from the two lines that lost me and the two mentioned at the end, as well as an unfavourable simile i really liked this one jack, see the difference between this and the aunt poem? thats what i meant. this si so near being perfect for me. i wish i'd wrote it of course though without the points mentioned hehe. sorry for giving a detailed feedback but i couldn't help myself

thanks for the read as always

[heslopian]

Why are you apologising for giving detailed feedback? That's the only kind of feedback I seek, though I myself am incapable of giving it sometimes. I find it interesting that you didn't like the "flowers for my own left hand" line. For the commenters on DUP that was what made the poem. This is why I love poetry: it's such a fertile ground for debate
The engineer line in the first stanza probably made sense to me at the time, but looking back I don't get it either, so I'll remove it once I've finished this.
Thank you as always for your kind words and critique

[billy]

i hope i didn't reply that it was a great line there hehe.

Nah I think this poem was published on DU a bit before your time. It's an oldie

no, the reason i said what said is because this is the mild crit section and i didn't want to set a precedence

I thought that might be the reason why. To be honest, the primary reason I've been publishing here is because you said it was underused. We're are all gluttons for serious critique, it would seem

[billy]

then thanks for spreading it around