The window is a woman.
The table is a woman.
The sheets are women, all of them.
The books are men. The wind
is a man. The wind in the open window
is like coitus, glorious fucking,
and the city’s genitals are flapping labially
under the big dick of the sky.
Today, the sun has fingered its prostate
and is now milking his marvellous cock upon us,
the lucky,
and the clouds that were his harem,
those boys with their luxurious nipples.
They do not see me here
in the deep cervix of my bed
with the daisy-anus,
with a sweet and gentle prick.
I am one complete and serious self.
I will have a wedding one day.
