The Pool of Desire

It’s all the deep end when you take the plunge.
No shallow end exists, as you well know.
It’s like one of those that’s built above ground.
They never slant, never allow you to stand at one end
with your balls hovering above the surface.
The deep end’s everywhere you look, for as far as you can see.
Something like the infinity ones, limitless.
It’s balls all in from one end to the other, brother.
The funny thing about the water is it boils and burns,
is never cool or soothing, like it would be on a hot day.
It is itself the hot day, and no matter the weather above the surface
the water’s much, much hotter, will scald you when
you’re balls-all-in, treading broth, your feet never finding bottom.
That’s when you stop thinking, too, after you dive in.
Your brain drowns the moment you hit the water.
The wheel has been commandeered by your heart,
which by the way is cooking away as well.
And when you’re done, the thermometer drops, of course,
the water turns so cold your teeth chatter liked they’d break,
and if you dare to open your eyes, knowing how
you’re always past well-done when this happens,
that you’re now bloodless meat too tough to eat,
you’ll find you’re all alone in the pool,
the lifeguard’s left the scene,
and the sun’s gone down to let you freeze to ice.

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