|The Exigencies of Living|
Once impetuous, I bore the common boyish tyro’s flush
that in the parabola of woman’s scent sent this lad to fairly gush,
now thinning mane, hollow, rheumyness visage faded,
a fate no buck can seemly moan reeking untimely worn, mere venting jaded.
With the last chapter looming, one’s lost his one and only,
dreams now hold, real exchange ago, while in the now lonely life’s
motive powers wane,
Luster of youth gone, silverado motto sagacity bullshit, a bane.
One can boast of past heroics, conquests long gone,
sounding like a geezer winded, the senioritis ‘quivalent of a put-upon,
the telling lie, of restful posturing to ponder past with present’s dearth,
I’d rather go the boxed up route and laid not so gently into Hades berth.
My manhood’s soft, the rough and tumble warrior dead,
All the strength and notches, most unrecalled, simply swelling in my head,
Unable to rouse oneself unless by hand or with bawd,
Paying the price pitiable, economia necessity -- an actual fraud!
The ache is real, the want to perform,
an unreached goal with willing mate, definitely not the norm,
so what to do with so less time to deal
when still sounds the call to roar, to make a woman squeal.
Liquor, pills -- they’ll not hold firm while pulses course the brain,
quixotic need to thrust remains, hopeful the sanguine lance yet can fully drain,
battle’s explosive decisive deeds, the spilling of blood, proffering the macho seed,
the body’s last exertion of a fitful, deep-seated want to do the deed.
Tho gone is youth’s spectacular speed, time slowly crawls one down,
But the aging buck stands untumely to be the untimely clown,
So painfully am I brought down, in my mind eye I’ve devised a fanciful plan
My proof to self and the fair sexy that I yet remain vestigial man.
Men can be proven by overcoming hexes,
our egos prevail in fem glances, reflexes,
so I am not the object where urge and performance are of an essence,
to be roiled in the moment, heated effervescence.
Thoughts of pursuit tend to the lady’s service,
ejaculation premature makes me not nervous,
Yet without the hardness, our needs simply go unmet,
So surely other means and approaches one yet can vet.
I’d make of YOU dear woman, sexy centerfold
to unabashed eye, be so visually bold
many’s the way to love o’ert via vaginal,
Strict position missionary can be boringly banal.
Coitus need not be the end nor genital contact all,
One can enjoy the dance yet sit-out the boisterous ball,
Man’s a visual creature, for eyefuls he’ll fantastivally long,
Which can raise the tower for thrusting powerful and strong.
Have we not hands to grasp, nimble sensing finger,
Over skin’s great organ, to push, pull or linger,
There is yet a spring to thy willing beauty,
Allow an older, slower fellow to do the duty.
For here come I to the denouement, the rendered final fact
experience…the truth at least I need not last redact
‘tis not the feminine, tho your wiles, I do truly cherish
it’s yer flaring nostril bucking, youthful arch I’d fully relish.
Call me wicked, call me churlish, a dirty old man’s relic
who goes down on folds and spitter-sputters of the thought merephallic,
I’ll squeeze out juice yet both in fruitfully soft, rigidic rind
animal lusting, sniffing and thrusting truly define our kind.
So be loving, true magnanimous in the spirit and body giving,
for one day true you may be the worse or even not be living
in the pale grey of aged recall the bronco spirit may be all that’s finally left
So by all means grace me with your dewy, palpitacious, sweet oderiferous cleft.
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