A dusty wind raps the broken windows.
From the ruins of this ancient city
Brothel houses like rubble rise.
Frayed little whores walk
In and out of the decrepit houses,
Muttering hatred under their breath.
Lewd love, polluted joys, happy screams
Fill the dark streets, where life once again,
Erects his head, undisturbed by the damage,
Or the deathly dirge.
Bedazzled through and through
By seeing a woman, barefoot, and
Wearing a slip that does not cover her thighs,
Life makes haste.
She lies face up on the bed,
Wearing only her red-flowered panties,
While he comes up to her,
Whispers warm words into her ear,
And takes her into his frail arms,
Riding like a defeated knight
On the top of her, splashing
In the onion soup of her filly’s thighs.
He goes to the dirty relics of teashops,
And wipes the lambent grogginess
From his face with unsold books of verse.
Placing a cup of sweet tea in his shaky hand,
He seduces his mind to joy,
And his heart to delight.
While death moans and rumbles,
Warning him the best he could,
Yet shuddering with the ache
Of life’s constant growing,
Knowing this cycle
Could go on and on