It skulks in the shadows- the lesser places,
the entrails of that we imagine is us-
It's the erogenous esoterica
we clutch to the side while slinking away-
embarrassed, engorged and excited-
the dirty magazines under the mattress.
The desire to witness the fracas when
two cars slam head-to-head-
the carnage that follows, the limbs
on the blacktop- that's what it is-
Showing its nakedness-
leering over shoulder at
the mirror of the poet’s inclination
to glimpse a rounded buttock-
With impudent pride, to entwine
its tentacles inside the mind of the writer-
lure to warfare- ultimatum-
a wrestling match for rights of control-
Humbled by pierce of pen, in palpitate accord,
until its seclusion again is breached.
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