I pray not to anyone,
but myself,
I bow down to none,
but my conscience.
I stand sans morals,
outcast, abject
My hand at work, my
brain at rest.
Debauch, I turn; to
love, I forget
Mechanically to and
fro, my limb vibrates
Organ I fondle, orgasm
I seek,
Eyes half-closed; of
malice, I reek.
The hour of love has
long since passed,
The draught of pure
emotion, flushed,
Still, my inertia-struck,
addicted muscle,
Conforming to nothing,
keeps up the jostle.
Still, I do what I do
not without sanction,
What inner broodings
be when pure is action?
Self-infliction,
anyway, is but no crime,
Who, pray, except in
thought, do I malign?
Does clandestine thought
add up to more
Than visible, palpable
acts of offense?
Doesn’t outward
goodness demand corruption
of innards and
thoughts and mental abomination?
A question to all who
shirk with deprecation,
Isn’t life all about
dark, veiled obsessions?
Don’t all of us,
inside our scaly shells,
Mask long-forgotten relics
of our shady selves?
