I, too wish I may be able to bring to the old women
the pleasures of a young man in his heat.
For what is life for them, now, useless shells
strolling about, waiting for thier deaths
There is nothing that cannot cure them so much
as my probing of thier secret envelopes
delivering a message of life whose stamp
is thiers to lick.
I once lived beneath a stairwell in manhatten
and could glance upwards, to view the treasure
of passing girls, but none were so arousing
as the sensual thighs of grandmothers
who in thier age had rendered themselves
finer, like wine, and in whose solitude
had one place neglected; arousing in me
the desire to touch them, and to insert
the glimmer of passion and buckle of thier kneees
into the holes they called thier lives.
~jeremiah houston~
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