SC reflects. The scholars here
develop introspective care
for new ideas. Stone by stone
the gothic walls of reason rise.
Winter drizzles to the bone
while solid thinkers analyze
Love. Even I have brought
my reckless thinking to the grid
of logic. Thus directed, thought
discerned the reptiles in my id
and the hobnails in my superego.
I wondered while a while ago
I'd loved. Ever since I've worn
a guard across my deep concern,
impersonal and rhymed. I saw
myself an object which I knew
awkward, squirming by the law
which regulates my ass into a
mattress. Oh, my spraddled self,
so naked and disgusting then!
I've read the sex books on my shelf
and learned mechanics for my sins.
I knew eight chambers made two hearts
and contemplated lust's twin parts
only. And so my verse went mad
with crazed desire to be a god.
I canonized a metaphor,
Saint Peeping Tom who roosts aloft
observing how a wiggle for my gawky thrills, and thinks me daft
to fuck.
Last winter I disagreed.
I wished my flesh were more refined.
I wanted to install a creed
that lauded my too solid mind.
To melt within the sheets is also
intellectual, and this is what
SC reflects
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