Elegy for Monsieur Johnson

My penis religiously pointed toward heaven
Early in its career, like Brancusi’s “Bird in Space”
It was a sculpture imbued with motion;
A finger pointing toward balcony assassins.

One day it was more like a bird-dog,
Frozen toward something immanent in the bushes
That flushed out seemed hardly worth hunting.

Finally gravity took command,
That tyrant boobs and apples fear,
My private wand tapped upon the earth
And lo! girls changed to human beings…

 

R. I. P.

 

Say nothing but good of the dead...

 

I'm sure the good Monsieur will eventually rise, Lazarus-like, from the dead ...

 

yes its called resurerection!