So many times I wanted to be raped ,
In a silent whisper ,
Under the dense cover of a stormy night ,
By wild strangers .
My crescent moon ,like the bud of a primrose ,
Longed trespassers ,
To have a lippy suck up to the dungeon core ,
A tease to my latent whore .
And when the spring evolved with monsoons’ tide ,
I invited riders ,
To be ridden in their clumsy-colossal rides ,
Day and night .
Hankering upon the imaginary portion of what might be ,
I processed my libido ,
To be torn , dug , hammered , stirred , and wined ,
On dissection table .
The rubbing of the juice of my nature’s will ,
By cutting seals ,
Of psychophysical tuned tornado ,
I projected my prime .
So many ,som many Tom , Harry , Dick ,
Sick and weak ,
Sparrow , street dogs , he-goat and rabbits ,
Did slip .
And yet , and yet ,-the old age did cause ,
Gathered moss ,
On the rolling mind of temporal time ,
I descry .
© Copyright 2017 A Passerby. All rights reserved.
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