Desire, a non-stop flute, plays 'ascend, ascend'…
We believe in art and beauty.
Someone talks about Cezanne.
Another wave of desire.
I’m alone, empty.
Someone joins with her body,
frail, soft like desperation.
Eve feeds her apple to the snake.
There’s no toad at Adam’s ears.
She doesn’t invite me for sex.
And lets her breasts bounce the way they always do.
We talk and mingle.
I think of pillows. Erotic is not sexual.
That’s where my paths fork.
It’s not the riddle of desire that interests me.
It’s the riddle of her smell, of white pages and of creativity.
Have I drunk myself beyond incandescence?
She pats me, ruffles my hair, says I’m tired.
Friends say goodnight. We didn’t talk much literature.
She says I’m tired, takes off my shoes,
puts me on the bed and puts off the lights.
Outside the window is the city night.
The sky is empty, no clouds.
Inside the room, emptiness is strict.
This suffocation pleases me.
I see Ulysses on the beach, my eyes are full of wonder.
In the sharp sweet light that streams in the night,
I see my body, naked and possessed
in a different order of religious awe.
(read on 5th Sept 2004)