as their husbands
sought self-cultivation, metaphysical pastimes, yolking to overcome their ego,
a great dragon-hustle incensed,
With their harp lessons
and tabla gurus, who cut them a rate.
But no woman likes a poet, an autodidact poet
except maybe as a pet, or an augur of Her fate,
after the skin flowers on a bed
And never did I wish a lover well with des bones sentiments, after a parting. Ooh
My wishes for them as black and brown as their coronet hair! (Ornament here!)
I accused every Dawn dressed in red russet
all my poems for girls who kept themselves cool-mouthed as I got upset
All these poems in the shape of a woman in the first instants of pregnancy
could have been executed by a painter
one by one, shooting them in the back, maybe even
in the back of the neck, to mix the colors. Stabbing achieves a dawn effect.
Was it Mitterand
or Jean Francois Millet who said “I paint with my penis”? (surely his was littler, as was Hitler’s, Himmler’s and Mao Zedong’s) Tell me I am correct.
The women I slept with were all married to lawyers, real-estate brokers, these men knew how to make those women laugh, when they first met in a pub with their friends, twenty years before, and now no one is laughing.
And never did I wish a lover well with des bones sentiments, after a raging parting.
My wishes as black and brown as their coronet hair! (add Ornament like a curry here)
I accused every Dawn dressed or undressed in red russet or yellow or blue
But a painter cannot
make” Dawn dressed in red russet” or even blue.
A painter makes Venice without my friend de anima, The Merchant.
But it was Mitterand
or Jean Francois Millet who said he paints by penis,
and I bet his palette, going now for 7 million on auction,
then flipping after Sotheby’s in New York for 20 million of which
his children, of all colors,
won’t see a dime.
poem by AD 2016 Buenos Airs