Fain

The thought jingles; I shall be a wimp no more.
I would fain, put off the quiver
and however slight, at the
crushing weights- where
waves rush outwards, each
clang a tussle with my chin; they will titillate
the tissues, living and bursting. My,

Imagination runs wild; of the well-crafted
frame; of the chisseled breasts; and
nipples in nature's array. O,

Ripping with muscles, from scant
flesh wrapped around bones- God's
better man and Spencer's axiom; fitter
to row in mud, then garner the ovation
of men and boys alike; women shall ovulate
at the scent of my figment. But,

I cannot make love now. For love handles
are untackled, my obstacles are gloriously
ungrateful. The manhandle below needs
not the man-handled on sides, fain-
put off not what I account tedious
training. How,

That fiery image calls to me- the
epitome without the dome
on the front; He shames me
for I stand still, far away-
scant flesh and love
handles; who loves the
sport but cannot fix
the match.


cuRRent..jer  ¶ 12:11 am