Oliver Stansfield

these days he takes two blue pills
just to get started—
like a battered engine
on a frosty morning
mechanisms splutter to life.
an old frustrated bull
he can still go all day.

on cheaply lit bedroom sets
he fills squealing blondes,
their perky plastic tits bouncing wildly,
but now he worries about his creaky knees.
his contract requires a comfortable cushion.
energetic cow girls half his age
ride him fast,
instinctively he grabs
their tight little asses
squeezing for the camera—
all a blur to his tired eyes.

he misses the seventies, Hef and Jack’s debauchery:
jacuzzi orgies with champagne,
bunnies and cocaine lines,
when fucking
was a work of art.