Having Crossed the Abyss

Horny on a Sunday Morning or Chasing Nuns


Like 10,000 other dead rose petals

What is the point?

So that someday she may read of me hanging myself?

My heart is dead; love is no longer welcome…


Her breasts are like marble mountains

Smaller than any I’ve ever known

Only smaller than I’ve ever been interested in

Hers I shall put on the statues of every woman from here until the fall

& after the passage was through

There was no one but me staring into my eyes through the reflection of the mirror

Standing in the dark wondering at the inverted curves of my eyelashes

How could I even close my eyes?

Surely they would be damaged


An ass like hers, I would kill nations over

There is no point in pushing that heavy square stone any longer

It never moves; choosing to feel nothing instead

Happiness in the movements of a passing b-bopper

Wonder is in the thought of each passing woman’s eyes


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