Those groans men use
passing a woman on the street
or on the steps of the subway.

To tell her she is a female
and their flesh knows it,

Are they the muffled roaring
of deafmutes trapped in a building that is…
slowly filling with smoke?

Their views are…
“Precious number of 8
My dying desire is you to date
You have a warm hole,
A big bum
And flashy tits”

It goes on buzzing in her ears,
it changes the pace of her walk,
Because dark flashes in echoing corridors.

But if she were lacking all grace,
they’d pass her in silence.

Ruttish act

“These rubbers will not,
Themselves nut.
So, comply, if not,
There would be a plot.
Fill my lotte,
With sensational lot”.
These were their thoughts to trot.

The drummer’s crave

In Nature’s piece still I see
No error that amends be.
My fair love,
Was framed by the motility of her hips
And flattened belly,
Setting my eyes ablaze
When motions be,
At the beat of my drum.
Had Nature, that made me, made her?
Because the errors in my being
Is far from perfection,
if a line is drawn.
I confess, I cannot spare,
The urge to stare at the glamourous shape we call “8”
My confession had me beg for another beauty
That heaven may bring
Because she had too much divinity for me.