My good friend Mr. Porss, of andreasporss.wordpress.com, gave me a painting and in return I have written him a poem. Decades from now, art historians and literary historians will uncover this post, printed out and tattered, and they will wonder about the past. Did we really wrestle octopodes together in Cyprus, in an underground and very sexy establishment? Is it true that we invented the pizza salad? What is it with swordfish? None of these questions are answered, or even brought up, in the following poem.
To a Pervert
I know your heart is not some cunt heart
To sheathe a sword in; your young blunt heart
Still sizzling the teflon wok pan:
I cannot eat out your undone heart.
So eat! Eat your own damn heart out, man,
At least feast your eyes. My unwrung heart
Plays Prisoner’s Dilemma, cut-throat,
No Nash equilibrium, some heart.
So shove a microphone down your throat
And learn to speak from your unstrung heart,
But hearts make poor cufflinks, rough red sand
On those you greet, mess, with but one heart
You’d say, today I wanked with this hand.
Today I’m ribs and spine, lung, lung, heart.
Be softer yet, wrap silk round your unspun heart;
And give away your well-hung punk heart.