Morning Wood
It’s hard
in the morning
when hoping for stiff
but the mind is limp
I fiddle
my pen
but it refuses
to wake up
As a younger man
every morning came
with something to grab
under the blanket
Stiffness still
rises with the sun
it just breathes
in my back and bones
A whisper
raised eyebrow
or simple suggestion
can still pitch a tent
But no matter
how much
I stroke
and stroke
thumb on the tip
click and click
an impotence of ink
nothing squirts out
Horror Sleaze Trash 