Like a tin can tied to his tail,
He walks like the invisible dog,
Taking no notice of the tin can.
The village women call away their children
If he is passing the trail between the bushes.
They all recoil as if he is Marques de Sade in person.
With some hidden imprudence,
With an air of I don’t give a fuck, no not I,
If nobody gives a fuck to me,
Shrewdly, with some bitterness in his tail,
He walks, keeping the women
Away from the wood.
They think of him as some nasty dog,
Who walks on his hind legs,
With breeches’ buttons undone,
An arching, flagged thing always pointing
To their small mouths, mouths that always
Babble the bossy impudence. Yet he keeps walking,
Thinking of manly tenderness,
& of everything that comes in between.
He thinks about wedging his face into their dark places,
& with whole mouth eating their hardness, their hungriness
While he struggles his breathing.
He thinks of conquering their most private of hungers,
Their sexiness as big as China
& slowly and lowly be enlightened.
While the women’s owlish hateful staring
Hangs onto the meeting of his thighs
Like the fire that burns during fucking.
Little flame yellow and brilliant —
A virtuousness flowing inside him
A virtuousness like the river of fire
Flowing and flowing endlessly
Fucking himself into peace
With the little flame alight.