They let the Scurrilous Child imagine …

but they’re all ghastly teachers. Not one graced

with the Lore of the Flesh. Ours: a Common

Pornography. I’m down with the Unchaste-

to-be, with Alien tremors. Hints start

like this. Phantom limbs waiting to be bit

away. Scars prenatal, biding time. Tart

horrors of muscle: in spring they’ll commit.

Trust me: your sex life will be the, “dark times,”

that Brecht warned of. Like mine. Like all of ours.

You just don’t feel it, yet. Go dream about

future fucks; go search for wise pastimes

sublime, as wise as your love without scars.

I’m not here to tease, love, just to sow doubt.