I wonder what it’ll be like
at the end of my life (say, when I’m 85—if I ever get there)
and the beautiful girls
who were 17,
are now 90, with hunchbacks
and drooping eyelids.
They won’t be able to control me
with pussy, anymore.
For that matter—money, will be superfluous
and my career, meaningless.
I won’t even know who I am
only that, I’m that old man
that looks into the mirror.
I’ll still have to shave
but my pecker won’t stand-up, anymore.
They’ll wheel me out in my chair
and I’ll stare
at the butterflies.
“Isn’t it a beautiful day, Andrew?” My nurse might say.
and I won’t say anything.
You see, I’ve seen it
Although, I’ll understand her curiosity.
She’ll be kind to me, while she tortures other men
with her bosoms.
I don’t know what’s worse—
not being considered sexually viable
or being tortured by my female nurse?
No wonder, some men, cut it off, with a box-cutter
(As long as it’s kept on ice, and able to be reattached, I’m okay with that, but if it’s thrown onto the freeway and flattened by a car, or disguised in a hot dog and eaten at a ball game, I’m not okay with that)
Somehow, the piece of me, I don’t want to lose, is my penus.
For Walt Disney, he had his head frozen (probably, because he did his best thinking there)
For most men, their creativity comes from somewhere else.
It’s the tiny thing
that motivates them.
Take that away,
and they lay on the couch,
We lose perspective.
Kids want to be adults, and adults want to stay young, forever. They paint their faces to postpone retirement.
They hold onto work, like a life preserver, until they work themselves to death.
We dismiss puppy-love,
because we are dogs,
and the old dog dies.
What does he care about?
The old dog cares about his Master,
who loves him,
and welcomes him home.