Honestly my dear, try as I may,
I can't forgo this pubescent fixation on skin.
Platform or mall or tram bus or train
The eyes cannot rest
From the curvacious contours of
Full ripened limbs
That struggle with clothes
For an inch full of light
As I fixate on ecstasy of sense.
I'm not a monk in his cloisters, you know,
But a man with his senses all sane.
And hence they are spread over valleys and hills
Or occasional cliffs that call to my soul
Tempests of animals unleashed.
Choked with dull-dour dosage of grime
These little showers of fantasy I need
To stagger through my miles unshorn.
Call me a voyeur or pervert if you will,
I care not a fig for labels as these.
Shapes and forms are all them my ware
That I breathe into stones rough or smooth.
Hence shall I gaze with bold brazen eyes
And drink in all nectars of honeysuckle days
That ooze from the creases of dresses or skin
And moisten my chapped arid ways.
A fool for the flesh? Well, let it be.
If God in his wisdom has made thus frail
Angels on earth shall I see.