Mown Grass

I crossed with
Mindless haste
Intent on fashion
Or, to be more precise
The salesman of the fashion
Somewhere half way across
The pungent scent assaulted
The odour of cut grass
Offended that its fecundity
Should now, impotent die
Then realising where I was
I saw those lines
Marked black
Straight lines
Tests of masculinity
Pubescent boys
Who ran
Straight and fast
Gained the accolades

Men in the making

While insects rose
Before me
In choruses of
Orgasmic delight
Feeding on decaying grass
I, in stepping
Out the lines
The shame, of
Always coming last

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By badgerslabyrinth