Butterfly Blues

Butterfly Blues

It probably started with Adam’s rib
becoming the claymate,
part receptacle, part succubus--
kissing serpents, biting apples,
pissing off old Jehovah,
precipitating a hasty exit
garden right, followed rapidly
by the gnawing need to procreate,
to co-create the human race;
the familiar story, the first melodrama--
yet we all give testament whenever
another temptress is born
every time a butterfly emerges
from its caterpillar chrysalis,
stretches its beautiful wings,
shakes its tight butt
and takes flight.

Men all reach for their nets
as their crotches bulge
and their blood thickens
flowing hot from their red center
to their lavender crowns,
glowing lust embers
from their steaming scalps.

You too have seen them,
those short tight skirts,
those low-cut blouses with cleavage heaving,
those stiletto heels and thin straps,
those golden thin ankle chains,
those bare midriffs,
those black push-up bras,
those red-smeared ample lips,
those bedroom eyes--
what the hell can real men do
when confronted with
this musky scent,
this wave of euphoria,
this total rush of pheromones?
There simply are not enough cold showers
to fully extinguish all the flames.

Glenn Buttkus September 2010

Posted over on Magpie Tales30
Listed as #15 on the challenge list.