THE NOM DE PLUMES OF A FORTHRIGHT AUTHOR*
We all remember the scene
in that Sartre novel
where the hero is about to
cut off his own dong
with a very sharp razor.
All of us recall that,
maybe the only thing
we really have in common.
Your eyes light up when
I promise not to be rough again
and smooth out my arse wrinkles,
been sitting for a long time now.
Who knows what attracted you
probably my copyrighted t-shirt,
Footnotes Are For Fools.*
I had washed my arse with the dish towel
because I have problems down there,
as opportunistic as modern schedules permit.
Late again, amid a forgotten torrent of bleach,
the towel remained on its rack.
Then in the afternoon suddenly remembering,
dangerously hurrying to precede my wife home,
just as our two handcuffed Raggedy Ann Dolls
were relieved diametrically of their pain.