The Mating Ritual
Everyone I know is a waxy skeleton,
features stretched over gaunt face
with lips protruding, smiling weakly
for someone who holds the camera off
This is our mating ritual
the color tan a mark of retreat for
the hunter who sits sipping his
cocktail unsure when to throw
the spear or just go home, call it
quits, and flog himself into a tissue
It’s crazy I think of such things,
what with my trembling libido &
my morals?, who has morals anymore?,
who ever did is the better qualm, and just
cause I hate you doesn’t mean I won’t
embarrass myself for you, believe me, I will
So plow forward, young men & women,
keep this in mind when the room spins
around you, that the person’s hand you take
is just blood and bone
& probably not much else
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