no, no behind the curtain in the women's convent.
The body's symbolic golden cerams
dribble a cross atop their buttocks.
O Jesus my kingpin of astronomy,
his heart is chiseled in over his tit
like a ruby in the public pawn shop,
gobbles his bloodred-orange down.
Fantastic priests like sexual desserts
your wellheeled clientele laces its human boots.
My penis in the shape of my own heart
rests on the pillows.
to fondle it 's some kind of sickness
but you'll be lining up for more soon, won't you?
a naked man is never poor—
all the more so if he sweetly loses sleep.
You've got to bounce, my honey, give your son a bang
onanism is pure semiotics
O Joan of Arc my murky inkbottle.
I really want to tease you reader
but not too much.
I never saw a bunch of women underneath a bed
could tuck their legs between their breasts.
I'm begging you to let it be
I want you to ungird your literarily
pathetically cockteasing loins
so I can whip some feeling into them.
I'm panting underneath the covers
I'm snuffing out the cat that's wrapped around my hand
I really don't know why this scenery's like garbage.
I kiss your mouth while vomiting.
Death ought to be exquisite.
I only drag it out.
by Francis Picabia (1879-1953)
Translated by Jerome Rothenberg
