Feast of Flesh

The sign says,
"No sexual behavior
in or around the pools."

     ~At this point, breathing is a sexual behavior for me.

This is a feast,
an eat-it-up, soak-it-in,
give-thanks-to-God,
orgy for the eyes and mind,
imagination race.

My nipples bloom
as in my mind, my fingers trace
her hip, his thigh,
biceps firm and nameless face.
Fantasy orgies dance, reminiscent
of Greek mythology
where rampant lust was slaked
at will
for God's and nymphs alike.

Gods and nymphs
move gracefully
through warm and healing waters,
stately up the stairs,
revealing nudity, unashamedly,
glistening in the sunlight,
then later in the candles' glow,
these wanton bodies show.

The lust!
My gods, the lust that plays
upon my skin and wheels
my mind: a furnace feels
as cold as stone compared
with where my mind doth go.

Serenity this place bequests,
on the off chance libido rests.
But by magick of a woman's grace
I glide about with tranquil face,
erotic itch quite well concealed,
unlike the men who must reveal,
as they step from the mineral pool,
their lurid turgid lustful tool.