If given one
I’d lick a gun
some nights.  
Other days
might see me
rub a knife sharp.
I’m no liar — weapons
please me, steel my
blood.  I’m not alone in this,
I know why:
there’s a tangible
thrill in my sack
thinking of craft put
in service to
a dark reflex, 
the second oldest urge
after the obvious.  
Is there shame in feeling it?
Yes.  Is there an action pending
from it?  No. But lie about it?
No, nay, never.  That
would embody it so swiftly
that I’d stop thinking
indeed.