Spellbound — he self-depreciates more
Than a dominatrixes slave in the literal;
Though it begs himself to face the question,
What else might his facebook be good for,
Encased in a thin glove of lukewarm sweat,
Time compiles and a man spends much of it
On the tasteless task of tying his shoes;
Unsupported by his thumbs of yesterday,
Impervious to the illusion of continuity,
Frequent bouts of nostalgic masterbation,
Each session needing an hour to expire,
Over girls next door in spandex leggings,
Whom for him never changed, thus do not live
Triggers him to act upon a baby’s grip
And wrenches him dry like an opened cactus,
Trusting the whole is the sum of his parts,
Evaporating his fluids on the desert floor.