Private vs. Public Ejaculations (Herbet's not mine)
 

A loner
with a boner
in Central Park was. . .

Word Made Flesh

On the broad steps of the Basilica
The feckless hopefully hold out their hands,
Often with some success; the privileged
Lighten their consciences by a few pence
On their way to receive the sacrament.

On the seventeenth step two beggars sit
Paying no regard to the worshippers
Who file past on their way to salvation.
They do not ask for alms. They are engrossed,
Skillfully masturbating one another.

Most who have noticed this pretend they haven’t;
Some of the other beggars wish they wouldn’t.
Poor relief is incumbent on the rich
And by taking things into their own hands
They spoil the scene for everybody else.

Our Lord said, “silver and gold have I none
But such as I have give I thee”. The words
Are here made flesh; with beatific sigh
One gives the other benison, slipping
All that he has into the waiting hand
Of somebody who shares his human need.

The newly shriven filter down the steps
Averting their eyes from the seventeenth,
Where the first beggar, in a state of grace,
Works selflessly towards the second coming.

This tableau vivant is almost like something out of Goya or The Rake's Progress, but I wonder at your exactitude in the counting of the stairs.

I came, I saw, I went

Repetitive Strain Injury

On diagnosis I gave way to grief,
fearing my writing life was at an end.
It hurts to do the thing that brings relief
from all the other pain, I told a friend.
Mischievously misunderstanding me,
he said, get a vibrator; that’ll do it,
and I, amused by his audacity,
decided there might be some substance to it.
I can recall first finding language fun
and being fascinated to discover
that substituting letters one by one
could change a given word into another.
Writing soon turns to self-abuse indeed;
Waiting and Wanting are the steps you need.

Not a poem, but sheer poetry.

https://youtu.be/xhu_TSf0O60

I might try writing one, though Ann is a hard act to follow...

Good luck, Mark. However, trying to write one is often unsuccessful. I was once responding to a prompt "how to get a poem published" and tried to parody du Bellay. It started off okay...

Frotter un editeur pour sa pine allonger,
Jouer la fille de joie, donner bonne…

But I couldn't find a French rendering of "blow-job" that would scan and I sort of went off the boil... It happens.

Did you try "pipe"?

Thanks, but I needed three syllables, Brian, and adding "alors" would have been a bit of a cop-out. Du Bellay is a hard taskmaster.

Ann, although I don't know du Bellay, I couldn't resist tinkering with your opening - I'm always game for a spot of smut. But I must admit that I didn't get beyond the first four lines.

Frotter un editeur pour sa pine allonger,
Jouer la fille de joie, donner bonne jouissance,
(Ne suivre, néanmoins, ses suggestions d’outrance),
Et pour réussir une pipe, un quart d’heure - oui, plongez !

For the benefit of those who have no idea what's going on, here are the first four lines of Du Bellay's poem

Flatter un créditeur, pour son terme allonger,
Courtiser un banquier, donner bonne espérance,
Ne suivre en son parler la liberté de France,
Et pour répondre un mot, un quart d'heure y songer :