If I masturbate thinking of you,
don't take offence.
It's the praise that my hands
and some other unmentionable part of my body
grant to you for the sensuality of your shapes
and the dullness of mines.
I'd write you a poem crowded
by grandiloquent metaphors, seasoned
by unstressed rhymes that don't fit,
but you know
how unavoidable is to fall into the bukowskian resource
of butts, vaginas, belches and related fluids.
It's not just showing up, making an image
and that the lyricism be detached
from the quavering walls of your soul.
(Ok. That one was for free.)
Instead, speaking about the snot
stuck on the corner of the lip,
gnawing the inspiration in rotten
brothels on streets and avenues
of this century,
that is not needed to be thought too much,
even more, thinking it too much would be distempering
the rusty edge of its dry rot
and the power of its brutal honesty.
If I told you that the wrinkled robes
of my sex strain in frantic
anxiety for reaching the warm shadow
of your most unreachable corners,
grant me a brief,
flattered smile
of uncountable desires,
as a door barely half-closed,
willing to give
a last pleasant vision
to this sad fraud
of a Freudian fixation.
