The Last Strokes


I’m having sex.
No, that’s a lie and a wishful thought.
I actually just tried to lie in this poem, to my readers and maybe to myself.
I’m actually only jerking off.
No use in lying.

I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and I’m horrified.

I am at my most base, most vulnerable, most pathetic state.
Every man is, when they’re in the midst of their last strokes.

I am an animal, a gross creature, and there’s no way around this.
It’s God’s sick joke on us.

Every man goes through the last strokes and every man is, thus, forced to – at some point – view himself in his most degraded state.
Yes, there will be a mirror around at some point.
And you will catch a glimpse.
Of your face.
It will happen.
And it will horrify you.

It’s God’s sick joke on us.

He made us a conscious, intelligent being…forced to watch ourselves be the exact opposite of what we want to be.
Drooling animal.
Seething.
Hissing and raccoon-like with rabid leers.
Weird orgasmic grins flashing our yellowed teeth.
It’s a face we’re horrified by, but we have no way around it.
We’re forced to look this way.

This is what we see during the last strokes.

 


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