Self-abuse

Masturbation’s an arid act,

Lacks lubricity like coital love,

Excited by anxiety and fear.

Unlike the surf of mutual love,

Discharging spasms of relief,

And falling off into desiccant euphoria

Of memory or of grief.

An aging veteran of the eros wars

Will wrap his gnarled, arthritic fingers

Around his wizened, purple penis,

Gently drawing out the male teat,

No bolero stimulus,

No contraction of atrophic muscles,

No fertile drop of viscous dew, anticipating pleasure.

Only acrid, aromatic humours here.

Dry in solitude and drier still in age.

Bill Schubart, Spring 1962