Imparted Virile Fecundity

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18/1/2017 A poem

Under duress,

in a dungeon,

I deliberately deliver

my distilled essence

into a cup.

 

-mere plastic,

a lowly receptacle

for my seed-

 

Far from my flaccid flesh,

well away from watching,

appraising eyes,

masked women and men

reap ova

from my anaesthetised,

oblivious wife.

Her stillness

the exact opposite

of the majority

of humans

when they conceive.

  

Wearing their semi-ceremonial,

pale blue garb,

with only their eyes showing

they create,

from parts of she and me,

what I and her

cannot.

 

An embryo.

 

Long may it live!

 

HUZZAH!

 

 

 

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