Friday, 13 August 2010


The lecherous collect in
Separate trenches;
Strengthened by a tribal style.

You can tell them by the lengths
They go to
Get at you
When they wouldn’t want to know you otherwise.

They snigger behind fingers
Used for bruising;
Slapping as they dish out blame,

And can mingle in plain sight,
But should you
Catch their eye
They become the feared ones your peers warn against.

The act of inquisition issues
Innocently from them;
Gathering the data they require

Then turning it upon its head
When what you’ve
Said has sparked
To life their coldness that’s emboldened by desire.

And you’ll feel akin to meat
Parading by them;
Ordered for a private appetite.

But not all men are treacherous,
And even some
Of us are victims
Of the lust that courses through the human mind.

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