In a windowless warehouse
Of red brick and mud
That discounts us our youth
And says: Be not proud
Nor boastfully arrogant
When stating your premise of being.
States are transient
Passing from shape to shape
Solids liquids gases group
In interrupted quadrants
Of mournful disregard.
Why can’t I stroke you
Inconveniently slow
With others present
And the burning question afloat?
Our horns locked
Within masculine display.
Like Samson’s hair
One hacks away at its root:
Thick, manly desire
Plucked out piece by piece
From its roots.
Each hair drier
and whiter than its past
stands sentinel
and begs for forgiveness
from distant stars.
