What I want from you is the complete religious disbelief,
The transcendence of the growing nails on the buried corpse,
Merteuil’s treachery and her cruel, sad sagacity,
The magician’s tricks on the wizard mode.
But sometimes the amazed gaze of the explorer
And the tyrant’s love and the aurasmic presence.
What I can’t accept is the plastic look of the boots-licker,
The no to hypnosis because Desnos did it,
An Aristotelian conviction.
What you can expect from me I wouldn’t bet on.
I might send pregnant red ants to your prince-head
Or the mosquito to tickle your sleep, bleed you.
Maybe a sarcasm for your awful talent. Maybe a slap
In your inspirer’s face or a nakedness in praise of your rage,
Neologisms in an attempt to speak fully of you.