I feel it now: that dreadful sensation.
It consumes my mind and tickles my loins;
Besieges me with the temptation of desperation.
All self-control this compulsion purloins.
Trying to retain a vague idea of righteousness,
Prying from my psyche the urge to indulge in mindlessness,
My Id, my desire is the inviting devil.
And in
Helpless mire,
Mentally disheveled,
I reach for the keys and release my desires
Upon page after page of a Microsoft Word document.
I smile at my efforts, but frown at my ineptitude,
For though I’m achieving some kind of rectitude,
On the page—that digital page—literary prowess runs
nil.


	
Oh, no!—the desire returns.
For my constructive distraction my thoughts no longer
yearn.
The carnal instinct burns
In my legs, in my fingers, within my eyes it churns.
Upon my own misfortune, I hearken to the sirens.
Visions of beauteous figures and dances divine
Wring my moral neck, my mortal neck until overtaken I lie
--no, I bask and bathe and indulge--
In a pool of dust and lust and mistrust and disgust
In myself.
Let my wicked belly bulge with the wickedness I indulge
And all the tension unfold—what a sight to behold!



But a light still flickers, as it always will.
I consciously continue, though my conscience urges shrill.
This habit from my spirit my conscience tries to distill.
And it tries harder, harder still.
And I let it.
And occurs a rare occurrence now: I conjure my dear sirens;
I come to my own rescue and stand my ground to stop this
virus.
They line up side by side and I detect in their alluring
faces
A recognition that it is no longer their bodies, but their
lives which their troubled host chases.
And the women—those lovely, lissome ladies—
Try to protest.
And to their breasts
Press a prominent hand, imploring
That I prevent these horrid deaths.
And I respond with a scene so deathly gory,
For I embrace these horrid deaths!
And I witness their departure with no remorseful breath,
For in their blood with a greater beauty am I so humbly
met.



And never again will this dreadful sensation in my loins so
poignantly burn,
For my imagination is more than capable of bringing violence
to the table,
And can make those witches explode if they return.