4427. BANDED IN IRON

BANDED IN IRON

Men are pretty often dreary. They stow

their gear and they wander about. I have

seen them, singly and in twos, talking 4am

stories to each other like washerwomen do.

Walking the streets of venomous gold, thinking

of how to reach advantage and gain. It's a most

dreary proposition, this thinking men through.

Those old Hart Crane sailor types, on the docks

and the wharves, trying to pick each other up

for exclamation. 'Use me, use me', they are

heard to exclaim. I cannot utter that profession,

and do not understand the need for, well, you know

that word I cannot type. Or will not. Women's juices

suit my plight much better, and the rest I leave unsaid.

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Parts of me are honor-bound, and I am banded, myself,

in iron of a different kind : not a need for men, despicable

savages they, and grunting groaners all. With reason.

With logic. With that silly pumping of fearsome toil, until

somehow the drill strikes oil. No, nay. Give me instead

a woman's cant, a woman's lean desire - that willingness

for words and lust and love, conspiring all together in some

better, far higher, orgasmic quest. Bring me home to that,

for that's by far the best. Men are often pretty dreary.

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To that, I can attest.