Lust Lost

image from Amazon

Lust Lost

“If you want to succeed with women, just tell them

that you are impotent.”--Cary Grant.

Damn,

there was a time

when a slight breeze

could prompt an erection.

When aroused

I would bellow like a bull

chasing heat,

quivering with vociferous groans

as I dribbled and seethed

with excitement.

Back then,

when limbs were limber.

there was no need

to embellish my adventures.

Thank Cupid,

there was always

plenty of eager women

to reciprocate my rip-roaring

romantic forays.

But egad,

these grayish days,

with hoar frost for hair,

limited mobility,

and a reduced libido,

my role as a Lothario

is limited to the

erotic lines

in my poetics;

More’s the pity.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

To Be Bookless

image by Buttkus 

To Be Bookless

“You cannot  stroll through a meadow full of flowers,

breathe those smells, see those colors and remain

angry. You will just support the beauty, the poetry

of life.”--Jonas Mekas.

You, my dear, are a voracious reader. Every spare 

moment I find you with nose in a book. You have

read hundreds during our three decades together.

It is more than an interest or hobby. For you it’s

like meditation. Sometimes I get a bit jealous of

those books when I crave your attention.

So, thank you for consenting to spend a day with

me, a getaway to a mountain meadow. We  shall

picnic, sitting on a checkered blanket. We will

count clover leaves, enjoy the wildflowers, chase

butterflies, and dance with angel’s breath in our

hair. We might even make love.

I only ask that that on this day, you stay focused

on each precious moment, on my smile and my

touch--and bring no book, for this one day we’ll 

give to idleness, and the rekindling of love.

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Daddy Dearest

image from wikipedia

 Daddy Dearest

“Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven,.

so lust will sate itself in a celestial bed.”

William Shakespeare from HAMLET.

Hamolet: Saywhat?

Ghoost: Perhapps I am, or am not your fodder’s

spiral, dummed for a gaggle of thorny ticks to

waddle the night, and as to the lite, confiscated to

to sprint in flames, till the fowl crimeas done neath

the gaze of Gaia are burned and pissed away.

If I was not zippered and tethered to not spill the

kidneys of my cage, I could vomit a tail fully

unwagged that would gut thy loins, freeze the plasma

midst your orbs, making your binocular fusion , like to

bilious gas giants, blow their bladders, thy curly lox to

straighten and each hare to erupt like the thrusting

quills of a pious porpentine’s posterior. But hay, these

salient sorrows should not succor the lobes of meat

and blud. But damn the torps, for if you ever dug your

Daddy!

Hamolet: You know I did!

Ghoost: Then my buoy, you must revenge my hidden

and uber obscene homicide.

Hamolet: Bitchin’ , I am red eye, so lay it on me, Pap.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub