Born of the foam of the cum of the sea of lust
of Uranus, you shake the ass of a goddess
right in front of my 
-too hard to hide - 

I don't know in what frenzy Norman Mailer was
when scribbling down Ancient Evenings
because that was before Viagra came to town,
but it turned me on.

I know, the girls now go: Blech!
But they lie, and they know that I know they do.

I once wrote a very sad poem.
I think it was inspired by Suttree*
but I also listened to Cais** and Atras da Porta***
those days.

It went like this:



The one-legged woman lets her mongrel shit in the middle of the well-kempt lawn while 3 neighbors watch closely from their balconies. It is the first sunny day in March and the bearded fellow with the 2 bags filled with bottles wobbles by, leaving a streak of freshly fallen sweat behind him. In passing he remembers that he almost missed his mission. Everyone loves him and wants him to suffer some more, while he tries to isolate himself to death, surrounded by friendly disinterest.

Now I see her almost daily;
she has a beautiful face 
mirroring a beautiful mind
and she keeps walking by
and I keep raising my bottle 
to her and sending a smile.