Some morning ode
Cold and flaccid, with the old smell of loneliness,
Solitude at night, no stench of beauty, nor perfect sunrise.
Lost in your warmth—the world it seems,
For a moment: true and good.
And the Angels and choirs sing,
Glory to God if he really exists;
With burning aftershaves,
A percentage of alcohol applied to face,
Never to tongue.
This bottle is unique
I would drink of your liquor another night,
Another lustful slumber,
My leg wrapped around you.
My body beside you,
The sex of sleep.
Cold and tired and lonely,
Tomorrow is the night the star exploded,
And old wise-men would surely know,
Which way to go?
Guided by celestial bodies,
With no uncertainty.
They pray to thee,
Oh virgin of virgins,
And bring some gifts,
To sooth your pain.
Your kind will not be seen again.