I see they are naked too. Their breasts are tits and boobs. They are the life of their own libido. I look in their eyes and they register empty. They recognize nothing. They are not new. Not more than light. They are expenses of energy from within me and without me. They are moments already faded. Leaves crumble in the hand of a horny child. I love this child and the forest he crushes. These women are looking at me because I forced them to, because I forced myself to. This bondage is a bandage for the horny wound.
These women are expensive and tasteless.
These art forms are cheap and delicious.
When I’m dead, my eyes will look like the pictures I masturbate to.
Poetry.
Desmond Tutu. Mahatma Gandhi.
dewittcb@hotmail.com
Happiness
Denis Robert