I hunch into my dark corner,
hammering out a frenzy
of odes and sonnets
of unrequited lust on my
rapid-fire staccato machine,
tossing most of them away
as fast as I turn them out
enraged that I even bother.

Some of them will be dropped
into a letterbox and
land on your doorstep
to fall, at last, under
the scan of your grey,
indifferent eyes.

I’m not old enough for philosophy,
not serene enough for sage wisdom
not young enough for copious
beating off about better times
amid smashed bottles.

Your idiot lover goes slack-jawed
after another tedious ejaculation
while you ride his lap, laughing,
reading to him the more inflamed
passages of my unanswerable letters
from thousands of days ago.


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