It lacks everything that makes it tick,
All the gravity in the core of the body,
All the irresistable sensation, the slow dragging,
Like a moth to a lamp,
Trying to escape the inescapable.
Two syllables though,
Simple black scratches on a sheet,
Do they do it justice?
A glottal, a liquid, a nasal:
two vowels, stashed between.
But where's the urgency?
Where's the instinct,
The feral elementalism,
In "horny?"
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