TESTOSTERONE Comment-allez vous? Parlez vous Francais? Every pearly word that the pretty girl says in schoolgirl French, laboriously learnt; yet an amateur's attempt at foreign speech! And I, with bastard, self-learnt tongue, ranting, raving, showing off phrases and words I do not yet fully understand. Nevertheless upon her each word I hang! And so does she, impressed with my fluent chatter, or is she? What would not a young man do, to impress a girl, and woo her too, showing off subconsciously, (chest expanded spaciously) driven, of course by that old instinct in our genes, to make an end, whatever the means. My metre fails me, I try again, and finally exhausted let it go. Later in the day, or night as may be when her testosterone-stirring presence has vanished, and reality comes back in full force; was she? Wasn't she? Did my incoherent sputtering, and French-sounding verbiage (But it was the genuine thing) have any effect on her seemingly wonder-stricken face? Nah! O testost...
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.