He cracks his
knuckles pumping iron weights
in the basement where
the gush of hot air
seems to spread his
sweat down on the chair
that he’s been
sitting on.
And yet from his
buried hollows deep
he pries out treasure
half asleep
like basement riches
to this musician
who’s dedicated now
to listen to a world
he’s so far just been
hitting on.
Sixteen years of life
half lived like in a trance,
yet he’s been dancing
all the rest away
like every night, and
in jacking off, prancing
in
that addictive fantasy,
‘cause
he’ll never be more laid than this.
He’s
racing for his vain bliss
in
the stress he’s placing on his work
while
leaving no more time to flirt so his
tongue
just pants in ecstasy.
His
boney arms and thin frame wrap his bass
as
he slaps his face for his mirror friend,
but
he can still get his femme body to bend
to
show off his fertility!
On
his lonely low he throws his blows,
rocks
and rolls to blow his load,
punches
bags, drags, and plays a chord
shirtless
in his basement bored—exploding
like
a cathode of masculinity!
Pick
handy and tuning strings tame his deep
desires
to his whim that were submerged
and
twisted to wrest in his gut in sleep
still
refusing to be cured—
Take up thy bed and
walk!
--Farewell Frat Row
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