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The lust stings my thighs with
Fishing barbs -- it is impossible
Not to twist and revel in past
Sexual soups and my penis and
Head conspire against me
In their infection of delicious

The prude can excite me
With her steady repression --
The imagined red nipple
Held firm in underwire,
Nestled in starched sturdy fabric,
Runs electric.
The heart of the matter.

I see myself an obvious man
of illicit intent, my raunchy brow
Dotted sheen sweat,
an admittance
Of phallic degeneration.

Thighs interest me more than
The lips for they support,
Hug, press, sometimes undulate
Underneath while the lips
Only consume and then render
Useless pulp.

©1995 Chris Abraham