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