picture of you

Any jackass with a cock can call himself a man;

but the essence of man
is more than a shot in the dark;
a drip of white lust.
(Though, that is quite nice
in the right hands.)

Man is folds in a curtain,
more revealed as it's pulled back
from the pane,
and the essence of it,
of pure masculinity,
needs no
definition.

But were it to require one,

were someone to demand
man be clearly defined,

I'd bark laughter,
throw away the pen,
pick up a brush
and

paint a bleeding nightmare
of lust, and need, and understanding
with ripped silk panties,  
twisted sheets
and steam on the looking glass
from the humidity
of his sweat,

as he
the subject of the picture,
covered her
in more than words,
and pulled back
another curtain;

the window
as opaque
as the mirror

and just as telling.

Were I to define
sex-need-lust-want-desire-hunger-urge-more-now
I'd use no dictionary,
no pen,  
only my body.

Were I to define
masculinity,
virility
ardor,

were I to put words to
man . . .

my body would paint a thousand words

of you.