[Aaron Poochigian]

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

[Ann Drysdale]

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.

[Allen Tice]

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.

[RCL]

I came, I saw, I went

[Ann Drysdale]

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.

[Mark McDonnell]

Not a poem, but sheer poetry.

https://youtu.be/xhu_TSf0O60

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

[Andrew Frisardi]

[nevermind]

[Ann Drysdale]

Metre-wanker

I am a metre-wanker and
My head is full of sums.
I work alone with what’s my own
And tweak it till it comes.

It seldom happens straight away
But I can give it time.
I lubricate and titillate
With assonance and rhyme.

I pander to my passion for
Felicity of diction,
Which I believe I can achieve
By gentle, rhythmic friction.

At first I feel it firming up,
Then it will sigh and soften.
I know each stage from urge to page
Because I do it often.

With optimistic tinkering
And educated guess
I take the thing and make it sing
A self-complacent “Yesssss!”

[Nigel Mace]

You are quite simply brilliant, Ann and far away in Italy I am laughing... gently laughing.

[Aaron Poochigian]

Public Ejaculation: A Reverdie

I remember
how my member
felt like lumber
in December,
but it's spring now.
Cocks are crowing.
Everything
has started growing.
Goats are rutting;
rams are butting;
doves are cooing
while they're screwing,
and I want to
be doing it, too
cuz
the devil in my pants
says,
"revel and dance!"