A One Track Mind

She
like a one woman pride
does as she likes
with utmost taste
devoid of regret
swollen with composure
a portrait of pharaohtic poise.

I think the loveliest things about women
while simultaneously
wanting to do the most depraved things
to
them.

A couple I have known for years
aren't doing so well,
or so it would appear,
as she has taken to leaping
onto other men's laps
and thrusting her tongue
down other men's
throats.

I don't really blame her.

I have known her dreamboat
for years
and he and I were partners
in the proliferation of
late night drug plans
and
purchases.

Its hard to get it in
when there's all those lines
to cut.

I hate to admit it
but a part of me
would love a crack at her.

The farce is that
when I said she was sending
the vibes my way
they nearly swung me
from the
rafters.

I'm rarely wrong.

I was graciously given
several talents
and the discernment of overtures
is one of
them.

But these days
I'm a man in a desert.

One gets used to having the
female form
for dinner
seven days
a
week.

I used to think such romantic things.

We lose our minds in all that flesh
once we pull it onto us
that fateful and damning
first time.

Then everything that comes after is
just the insatiable appetite for
more.

On Saturdays I go to the market;
there is a girl who works behind the meat counter.
She has the most beautiful eyes,
so full of kindness.
Inside her there's
not a single rotten
bone.

She is always smiling,
always helpful,
and always so eager
to
please (naturally I like that most of all).


I look forward to seeing her every week
but she's Amish,
and I never learned to play
the
plough.

I'd give it a shot
but she aint' ready.
Her bonnet is too white
and her dress doesn't have a single
crease.

I need a little dirt under the nails -
a little wear and tear,
I don't want to be saved
I want a
wingman.

A rock to roll with me

and break apart
the
plough.