Oh! Northern stars! Which shine too brazen for the eyes of any voyeur,
A lonely Aphrodite watches, too paradisiacal for any man to love adequately,
just as the mountain, who’s splendour reaches seldom explored worlds,
becomes frigid under it’s own icy peak.
Like piquant fruits! The trees best efforts, a small part too sweet to taste,
An open fire in a once frozen room, who’s guests are cursed by it’s thick black smoke.
Journeying across Canada on a twenty-second-century train,
On today, off today. Pictures of only green and grey.
A Ferris Wheel over London, which is lost under clouds and the carriages below,
long walks in pristine forests, and emerging with empty flasks and blooded feet,
Family dogs with loyal and peaceful dispositions,
which lick at the feet of Christmas Eve crooks.
Sunbathing on cloistered beaches, inhabited by only alligators
A romantic gondola ride down the Pacific Ocean, lit only by the moon
or kissing your neck in the springs of Yellowstone Caldera,
during her most theatrical moments.
The fullness of your stomach as you satiate it with a fourth beef burger,
and the dullness of your creativity as cocaine beasts you of it’s buzz,
morning erections that fight against the throbbing and panging,
and so more food, more cocaine, more sex!
(If not for penance then for mere self mutilation.)
And the poem that went on long enough to spoil the imagination of any bard.
I understand all of this,
for when I poured myself into you,
you could not help but overflow.