Foul and depraved. Some might say, bestial.
A hint of skull-duggery. A slap dash
of skull-fuckery. That nightmare: jackal-
headed ghast with a touch of cock, a splash
of cum, one who makes your nipples pucker
pushing six– ten– twelve inches down your throat.
Haven’t thought of that fiend with a swagger
in years. Yesterday your sister’s buck-goat
eyed you with lust. Today it was the curs
next door. Awake or asleep you’re crudely
used. Some say that we do this on purpose,
so that naughty thoughts might make us monsters.
Grace comes when we admit that we’re horny.
Denying that is what’s monstrous.