The old man had always found beauty in everything

At sixteen he fell in love with the experience.

Survived long periods of marital bliss,

but it was only upon late life success

did he delve into an odyssey into which he long been obsessed.

…with his eyes full of knowledge, the beast unkept, unfettered and full of feeling,

waiting in gleeful abandon at what others found tritely unappealing…

He treated them well; in fact they sought him out,

house on a rocky hill, flowers inviting; always ready to teach

Through his memoirs they believed they knew what he was about

but after several days in his haven

it was only for the person within did they reach.

He greeted them all the same, robbers crooks and thieves,

‘Help yourself to whatever you want and maybe later I can give you what I need’

Yet the criminal racket do not read nor an old mans death did they want

from this kinda-Casanova’s perspective,

it was only himself did he casually flaunt.

There was a sick thrill riding the old man whilst asking him questions,

‘Was it this starlet or another? Am the lucky winner, am I your two thousandth?’

If truth were told, it was never too clear, coyness became bold and in the splendour he disappeared!

His reputation grew, the monotonous crowd became sickened and loud

how little they knew, the women became younger, luminous and proud!

It’s a piece of their puzzle, an issue worked through, he asked nothing of them

he let them did as they do.

Some stayed for days

others for more!

Several popped in for a quick blow job

his life, he reflected, was truly unflawed!

Although he taught whatever he could, poetry being a particular favourite

something short and up for debate and oftentimes, ‘made-up on the fly rather quick’

However his companions views, while entertaining, held little staying power,

nothing to compelling, littler ever quite remaining…

He wrote in the afternoon, what of? Nobody knows,

some alone time perhaps, a scribbled ephemeral line or satirical bomb.

Maybe lost in the wonder or a failing at the order of a personal gods behest

In desperate moments they could hear his plea,

‘Why couldn’t this way of life hit me when I was at my best’

Dodging all direct questions perfectly,

he kept them on a hook, believing they could reveal untold reveries

dropping lies and truth, contradicting his most boldest of recollections

then with a snarl or a sideways glance he’d dismiss their inspections.

Nobody complained of distress or sued for inappropriateness

but the media interests grew, ready to cut and paste and twist

surely they knew it was a life any old man could never resist!

They made a documentary on the curious old oddity

where the women were interviewed and calmly they’d say

‘There was wisdom in his brow, he made me feel truly unique’

‘I’d never been so free’

‘He cured every freak’

Undercover of fiction he could never be tricked

Revealing his cocks length at any news-ladies reporters expense

He’d chase them out the window with hilarious accusations of rape

He gave everybody what they wanted, from himself there was no escape.

As he got even older his poetic perspective enlightened

There was something he was missing, one integral wrong he felt he could righten

He’d had six distraught marriages and believed he’d found the cure

with women of all nationalities conceived forty plus years after he was born.

It was a woman all too complex who stormed his ideas of reciprocity

it couldn’t help but occur this untimely epiphany

A revelation to him, her chaste and perfect naked glory!

Everything repressed, all that he did not want to see

his poetic mind crushed to bended knee

If only, somehow, sixteen year old she

were truly ready

to start her life in bad poetry.