A Touch of
Tickling yourself is no laughing matter,
for a sliver of tissue in your brain discerns the difference
between your own and a stranger's touch.
Many brain-damaged souls suffer bizarre aberrations.
A man once mistook his wife for a hat,
another soul lost his sense of left and right
and from then on ignored his better half,
someone is rereading the top of this page
because he's already forgotten he read it,
still others confuse sight for sound or sound for sight,
and there are even those in numb agony
over the loss of their sense of physical pain.
But within this litany of so many possible ills
there's no record of anyone actually tickling himself to
because of a stroke, concussion, or fever.
But suppose some concoction invented by the proverbial mad
blurs the boundary between self and nonself,
imagine what comes next.
Does enhanced masturbation grab your fancy?
A little slower darling, a little faster,
higher, lower, softer, harder, harder,
harder darling, oh darling!
And you are your own darling.
Every egomaniac will be in ecstasy
and every lonely wallflower will be an addict.
Imagine the market share for such a "self-love"
Alas, so much pleasure is sure to be made illegal.
But what constable, marshal, sheriff, or cop,
what upholder of the straight and narrow,
could rise to the onus of arresting a sated humanity?
If you've any comments on
this poem, Richard Fein would be pleased to
hear from you.