“To fust in us unused.”
Hamlet
Who fusts deep within?
Who raised hand as child
yet never chosen
so simpers in the
silent, sleepless hours.
If sought,
hides as fetal’d child
under the covers
of consciousness.
Who, in lieu, grows within?
And now appears as
an apparition
when asked.
More, what should we do
with the empty womb
within all
that cries out
for conception?
=] mused by OldPoetMK =]
*feel free to substitute her/them/those for ‘his’
** it’s my cultural/sexual blind-spot.
A sex object suddenly comes into focus
we’re all prisoners of that old neanderthal lust
it’s tucked behind the lizard-brain rust
in ready reach, just wipe off the dust
Is it his shape, his walk, his fust
that makes your loins feel about to combust
get out you smooth, and win his trust
prepare your prey, however you must
to accept your dandy, randy and desperate thrusts
.
.
A song for this:
The Men of Your Dreams by DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince
Dashing through the snow,
It's thirty-two below,
My hands are cold, my feet are numb,
For some this weather sure ain't fun.
My eyes are tearing up,
My nose has turned bright red,
My fingers hurt, the car won't start,
I should have stayed in bed.
Ohhhh! Off to work, Off to work,
I gotta get to work.
The car won't start, the battery died,
I'll have to try to hitch a ride.
Standing in the cold.
I'm waiting for the bus.
If I don't freeze to death today,
It's 'cause pneumonia got me fust.
Let me tread the path of love
Where all the broken souls in rush
Things might get changed but that all is tough
When you meet the soul to keep you up
Heap of bodies, all in touch
That only person who bloom in fust
The only one who gives you wonders of joy
And keep you away from all the noy
I wandered through the streets of crust
The crust beneath the heart of zar
Surround is all the longest mur
But I succeed to go there first
All I found was the misconduct
The soul is hiding from years of trust
Yet it is finished but not at rush
The love was just a bunch of lust
Dashing through the snow,
It's thirty-two below,
My hands are cold, my feet are numb,
For some this weather sure ain't fun.
My eyes are tearing up,
My nose has turned bright red,
My fingers hurt, the car won't start,
I should have stayed in bed.
Ohhhhh! Off to work, Off to work,
I gotta get to work.
The car won't start, the battery died,
I'll have to try to hitch a ride.
Standing in the cold,
I'm waiting for the bus,
If I don't freeze to death today,
It's 'cause pneumonia got me fust.
Dashing through the snow,
It's thirty-two below,
My hands are cold, my feet are numb,
For some this weather sure ain't fun.
My eyes are tearing up,
My nose has turned bright red,
My fingers hurt, the car won't start,
I should have stayed in bed.
Ohhhhh! Off to work, off to work,
I gotta get to work.
The car won't start, the battery died,
I'll have to try to hitch a ride.
Standing in the cold,
I'm waiting for the bus,
If I don't freeze to death today,
It's cause pneumonia got me fust.
Wye, 2 Konfabulation
Come folk; gather to my proboscis
And hark to my impending psychosis.
Tonight is December thirty-fust,
Something is about to bust.
\The clock is crouching, ready to pounce;
Of pity it'll not give an ounce.
This way comes rapacity, penury.
Duck, here comes another century.
(Sung to the tune of Jingle Bells)
Dashing through the snow,
It's thirty-two below,
My hands are cold, my feet are numb,
For some this weather sure ain't fun.
My eyes are tearing up,
My nose has turned bright red,
My fingers hurt, the car won't start,
I should have stayed in bed.
Ohhhhhh! Off to work, Off to work,
I gotta get to work.
The car won't start, the battery died,
I'll have to try to hitch a ride.
Standing in the cold,
I'm waiting for the bus,
If I don't freeze to death today,
It's 'cause pneumonia got me fust.
Merry Christmas, Y'all
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