I look at the great artists
read the great writers
always thinking
“what am i missing? what do they have?”
perhaps my honesty is greater than
my ability to be forthright

she shut the light
unzipped my pants
I felt her hands on me
    one on my shaft
    the other cupping my unshaven testicles
I watched her silhouette kneel before me
    that is when I felt myself in her mouth
    that is when I came

Simple details?  Pornography?
How up front can I push?

Writing about that night
and
Living that night
still
I have no regrets,
whatever the consequences might be

I lie here naked on my
last night in Espana
hoping for more of those dark meetings
flipping through the manifestos of
Leonardo the crazy
Botticelli the violent
Schiele the erotic

These great artists…

They dared to do, always

What they had were inherent desires to be themselves

 

 

 

af

 

 

(written in Barcelona, Catalonia)