It’s my fate to love fatally;
a beautiful whore is like poisoned honey.
I carry my lamp in the daytime,
looking for an honest man to hold me
when the sun downs himself suddenly.
From a barrel a dog comes running
barking something I find funny:
Love is a luxury no one can afford
over ten books, a volume of letters, and seven tragedies;
live a life free of the chains of chastity.
Married to the word, I often
am perused, never pursued; it’s the
irony of doubt colouring with confidence
the defiant shout of what I do; we
never tell the truth, it’s true.
Ah, poets, this interrupted lust in abundance
is the dog-eared dollar we trust,
selling our Selves just to write
of imagined love; so tonight I’ll have
what I must, but I’ll be compelling.
Stop me if you’ve heard a cynic
before, telling you all your wealth has no chance
of buying you substance; tell me
you’ll piss from under your leg
on the city just like Diogenes, and rag
me a dance down to your bone, if you’ll
listen and give in to what I beg:
Let me drink of your pink heart and paint
glistening constellations on the light of your panting face:
‘I am the voice offering you the consolation of fate.’