When we made love the first time,
I was under a spell.
I thought the magical vagina
would transport me
to a kinder—
more gentle—world.
Some lessons come
with concrete
and empty pockets.
Conversations with ducks
and feral cats
down by the river.
That ass, those breasts—pure sorcery.
I remember lying under the bridge,
dirty and drunk.
I remember walking the streets, 2 a.m.,
broke as a goldfish
floating in a bowl.
I remember stealing bottles of vodka
from the neighborhood grocery store,
sick and shaking,
puking
the moment I got out the door.
Because that poison—
in the tragic dichotomy—
kept me alive
for the time being.
The heart is such a tender bird.
It ceases flight
when it worships the wrong thing—
sometimes sooner, sometimes later—
but always.
Now I understand.
Now it dawns on me
like gentle rain
walking to the eighth hole
on the long fairway.
God isn’t an orgasm.
Some fragile minds
will worship anything.
But I get it.
It was the ass.
Always that ass.
That ass convinced me
to rub it for luck,
like a lantern
hoping a genie
would appear.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 11th, 2026 08:45
- Comment from author about the poem: https://www.youtube.com/watch?vJD_4EDxtGWU Here is a link to my brand new reading on YouTube, and as always, my books are available on Amazon.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments1
What a down and dirty presentation of life in the sex drive of the lascivious male. The worship of the puerile god of sex. Prayers of magic seduction rule. An addiction where your last line sinks the game winning shot. A wonderful poem of raw grit
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.