Trimming Sail

Speaking of a spigot spank
And all that goes between,
Trimming sail for a proper fit,
And turning tail and going back,
There's no one here to position on
Or even to sidle past.
So you'll just go on,
Depressed as some, or lachrymose,
Detected, determined, and dysfunctional
Down to the very last bone,
Down to the very last Jones.

Is this my last nerve or not, she asked?
I was eager to attend her
And tried to rub against her,
But though she was very friendly
Both distance and her darlings prevented it.

I shuffled through the darkness,
Expending every sense,
Expanding every ounce,
A surfeit of spent desire,
A crucible of savage saved regrets...

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