Poesis

By | 1 July 2009

Falling for you, or at least in front of you,
I measure my length, fathoming myself,
Along the independent variable of time or narrative
I find masturbation necessary but insufficient

Stand on a chair and look at that stain long enough
You will see the Blessed Virgin, they say
But all I see is genitalia, admittedly wrapped
In a pink nightie and dark velvet smock

Go like this, and you'll see its little nose
Sniffing the scent of spikenards
Bertolt Brecht noticed something similar
Now, that's what I call art.

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