Posted by Gerald Bosacker
on 3/21/2002, 10:37 am
A DEATH IN VENICE
Sleepless Casanova glumly eyed
his impudent sentry, aflame,
standing erect, purpled with pride.
Was it just crimsoned blush of shame
that colored his too fickle friend?
Maybe just pressure of accrued
ashes from sour grapes brimming to send
the last of past night's wine re-brewed?
Or could it be, that nether member,
only now, alert and awake, would choose
to dance round the May Pole in November.
Slumbering through calls to arms, you lose
esteem with each eager fair flower
poised to bloom. Those blooms ignored
while open and fulgent, soon sour
or brown, and emanate discord,
that all other blossoms will see.
Casanova eyed his standing spear,
with vile contempt. "They will doubt me,
expecting the passion of a steer."
I too, now blush from cowardice!
It ages my face with shame,
in fear that when I rise to piss,
you will deflate, hang limp and lame.
You are the same age as I.. How
can you wear out while I still feel
the young man's needs. Why now
when I most need love, does your steel
backbone turn to limp spaghetti?.
Grateful Ladies once tore apart their best
nightgowns to make the bright confetti
to salute their lusty conquest."
The rest of Casanova died of shame
when his admiring crowd turned wary
while passing years had doused his flame
and left his shaft too soft to bury.
Gerald Bosacker
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