Here’s to tight lipped librarians
imprisoned by stacks of books,
keeping their passions checked.
Their minds subdue their flesh.
All those bound volumes
bind their bodies tight
Like their proper dresses
buttoned to their necks like nooses.
‘Till evening comes.
And as the front door’s triple locked,
so the secret gardens entry’s opened
to a hot, orgasmic night.
‘Till comes again
repression with the light.
Poems by Ken 