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Silence Exile and Crumpets
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Sunday, March 13th, 2011

Time Event
Confessional 1

The beast is back. It's clawing at my cunt
and whispering in my brain. My hands are still
moral and chaste. It's not seduced my will.
It sounds its horn, to rouse me to the hunt

of firm young flesh. Their interesting mind
the talent and the wit is an excuse.
Somehow the beast has never tried to choose
brains over large brown eyes or cute behind.

I hoped that age would dignify me, turn
me wise austere unselfish kind and chaste.
Some sweet thing wraps their arms around my waist
in play perhaps in lust. And oh! I burn.

I'm maddened by an itch I can't ignore.
Middle-aged lust and shame ravish me sore.

My body chooses to misunderstand
the slightest softest touch, quivers to flame.
My prudent mind is reddened by the shame.
Uncalled for lust leaps forward to command.

Reciting Yeats I stare into their eyes
see passion to be taught. I know no lust
is there, and I would not abuse their trust.
And yet when I am taken by surprise

Sweet arse in shorts jumps down into my lap
soft teasing arms are thrown around my neck
my good intentions nearly go to wreck.
Yet never do. It's shame preserves the gap

between a vague lascivious dream or hope
and sweaty kiss or quite unwelcome grope.

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