Poem Hunter
(04 October 1943 / Germany)


It was a whisper, really.
Perhaps a bit metallic.
A voice suppressed from freely
expressing something phallic.

Okay, so, call it hoarse,
gravels of adrenalin,
which infiltrates, of course
tissues behind the chin.

The masseter, a muscle, which
just moves the jaw around,
and when you reach into the fridge,
at last a tasty morsel found
it helps you chew as well as speak.

Yet when testosterone gets going,
you're up the 'only-human' creek,
with hair and skin supremely glowing,
but what affects boys and their toys

makes salivary glands unstable,
at first they drool, (that soon annoys) ,
right after they become unstable
can't squeeze a lousy, single drop.

This state, when there is liquid missing,
while other structures stand right up,
is not conducive to much kissing.
Though time makes honey for the bees
and is a rather patient tutor,
some mice are caught with cheddar cheese,
a special one runs my computer.

I hope you get my latent drift.
Speak up. Forever hold your peace.
The gab can never be a gift
that epinephrine lets you seize.

User Rating: 2,8 / 5 ( 2 votes )

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.