Large
Luxuries
like a King
Cobra in His
White Sheets
Not yachts or mansions in the Highlands. No.
Real luxuries rise best in drowse of dreams
Or waking dreams. We move our hands down low
To rest them on the manliness. It teams
With utterness but wakes deliciously,
A slow delicious wakening. It grows
As maleness must, desiring viciously
To find a thrusting lodgement, passion’s throes
And juddering are its dynamic aim.
A lurch, Lurch, LURCH are what it clamors for.
It spews is message deeply, nothing tame
Inside it, though it urges tameness more
Like love that loves capitulation. “Take
It, TAKE it, TAKE IT,” shouts the spitting snake.
~ Phillip Whidden