Do not pretend ignorance.
You too have noticed them, in
those short tight skirts,
those low-cut cleavage heaving blouses,
those stiletto heels and thin ankle straps,
those golden bare-midriff chains,
those black push-up bras, with
those cherry-red kiss-me lips,
those try-me-sometime looks--
seriously, what the hell can real men do
when confronted with this musky, lusty scent,
this tsunami of euphoria,
this total rush of super-charged pheromones?
There simply can never be enough
ice cold showers to fully extinguish
all those flames.
It probably started in the garden
when Adam’s Rib became
the primary Claymate,
part receptacle, part succubus--
kissing reptiles, biting fruit,
pissing off the Land Lord,
culminating in a hasty exit
Eden right, followed immediately
by the gnawing need to procreate,
to co-create the rest of us;
becoming the greatest melodrama
ever told, given credibility and testament
every time another temptress
emerges from her chrysalis,
stretches her beautiful soft wings,
shakes her tight butt
and takes flight--forcing
men to reach for their nets.
Listed as #15 over on Magpie Tales 46
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