just you know

It's not 
that I'm not 
libidinous. I 
can be lascivious, 
too! The salacious leer 
that my face can't pull 
seemingly has an inner 
gear. True,

I am not licentious.
No scruple in this
conscientiousness
- I was always more 
aim and drive than 
block, yet surprising 
(to me) how none are
are shocked

When fulsome candor
lays bare my ends by
the most ulterior means 
of all: I show my ass.
Just so, what ho! With
a touching sincere intent,
you know.  

Just a focused goodwill
some mistake as pure,
'cause it is! "Pure what?"
should be easy to guess 
- but it isn't. I'm taken for
innocence. That's cool. 

I am! Far as I can tell.

Which is bliss, of the ignoramus
kind. But I really don't mind. It is
just, as well. My inhibition is
absent at best, rather easy to note,
yet drive and aim do tell. I find.  

The only thing I'm embarrassed
about is how little I understand 
this shame. I'm not proud of how
carefree natural all of it strikes,
springs, runs clear again, in a
usual beautiful clarity, from deep
down up to all through me. I don't
let it hang out at all. I swing! 

Yet people don't seem to mind
what I bring. They can tell somehow
what I mean, I think. I feel that is fit,
if mysterious. 'Cause however they
tell - I do mean it, so.

Clandestine kinda, except
not at all. My self-censor
burned hisself to death
on books and art, and left
me show.

It is fair, fine,
fit, and just
you know.