Sex at sixty-three - Tanka prose
Sex at sixty-three - Tanka prose It’s been years since the color of my sex is red. Nothing seems to interest me. Is it fear? Those old lovers stay away; the new one’s lie, no, vie for my paycheck. Salt and pepper hair, bald spots, and I am so fat that who would want me anyway. to all the boys that are so smart, I have let my anger pass, so while you’re down there kiss my ass and I will love again at last. This is not a promise. I’ve begun a scrapbook with the sole purpose of pinning my sex drive. You can’t hear it, or see it, or read it, or sing it, specially sing it, since I don’t rhyme. But you can feel it, my crocodile skin. Please don’t laugh. It’s not a laughing matter. I’m so lonely my shoulder bone hurts. what illness do I think I have— the warrens of my brain dry and crackle
