Coursing Length

With nerves of gold prepared by pent up heat

He waits, with nerves of gold beneath that skin

That lengthens most, he feels the heart-pulsed beat.

With highest purity of carat sin

He waits, has waited far too long.   The wait

Is like alembics with a blood-filled pipe

And glass for purifying manly weight

In gold.  He does not know that hormone hype

Is hitting organs — most that swollen one

That slips as precious gold should feel the most.

He knows with certainty it wants to stun

Himself and more to stun it slickest host.

  A luscious metal makes him think a throne

    Would envy him because of this veined groan.

~ Phillip Whidden