Fleeting Libido

Crazy catches me –
semi-conscious/ zoned out –
body slams me,
hot mouth pressed on mine
suppressing objection
(as if I’d object)
working my juices
my mind overboard
passion flaming

I forget
who I am
where I am

Modesty intervenes
compelling flight –
flesh torn from flesh
prematurely –
this seduction,
taunting me in youth,
surprisingly vital still

I forget
who I am
where I am

heart palpitating
loins throbbing…
abandoned again.
It was only a ghost
a specter from the past
mocking me –
false ecstasy.



  1. vjearle, I’ve been thinking about my previous post about this poem and realize that my response – humor – has a lot to do with being 68. In my 50’s I would have felt the grief that I can see in your poem. I hope my response did not add to that grief. I want to honor your emotions and the raw honesty with which you write. Ultimately, we see everything as it relates to us, and I responded quickly to your post from where I am. Along with all the loses that come with growing old, there are some perks: fewer demands, even for sexual satisfaction, and more space for recovery.


    1. Oh Jan, poetry (and prose) derives meaning from both the writer and the reader – perhaps more so from the audience. I love the feedback because that gives me a new a perspective too. No apologies needed. I really appreciate the time you take to visit and respond


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