Yeah, this is my last piece of poetry I promise to subject you to (FOR NOW...) and this one is a doozy.

It's reflection about the first hard-on I remembered getting when I was five years old...and how it terrified me.

'Nuff said, right?

Thanks for taking the time.

The Pop-Up Book

Oh my goodness! I don't feel so good,
there is a discomfort I can't locate-
it is a place I'm not supposed to touch;
humours leave golden exit plashes,
and now I am rigid, with a turgor

that biology has perfected. Prickling
tingles mingle with my inept little
sensory field as Kristy McNichol's bright
shiny teeth slightly open, denim
dark coverings of a cotton snowfield

I want to enter one someday:
my small nuisance growing larger
continues to ache until I don't know...
it tickles in a way that makes me sleepy.
Mama's magazine full of snakes

like Medusa, filled with the Cosmo types
boys have notions about; a late night
statue of David star quality hardness
we ask forgiveness for,
vastly different, Corpus Cavernosa, cocked

third armed testing ground, explosive, a pause-
the retreat begins in a rush of linger,
seeking out a point of origin, long
sought by fifty percent of the world over
and some of Sappho's friends who play tennis.

© 2008 Steve Ekstrom