Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

With apologies to William Ernest Henley.

Out of the pleasures born of pain
    Of flesh wound tight ’round tempered glass
I curse whatever demon reigns
    O’er my unconquerable ass.

The peristaltic dead-man’s grasp
    Gives time to neither wince nor cry.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
    ’Tis to extract the thing or die.

Beyond this place of knife and shroud
    Looms but the Horror of the shame,
My rectum, bloody but unbowed,
    Demands the calling of one’s name.

It matters not if lube might lack,
    Of what diameter the pole
I am the master of my crack;
    I am the captain of my hole.