Ours
Pine.
Something like fresh pine.
Not christmas pine.
Summer pine near the summit,
all beholden truth.
Just a hint
just the nape
just the edge of a skirt,
the trembling of a weary knee.
Upward and downward
and upward still,
the laughing dada
in the tiny presence of
each absurd thing.
come cuddle my thoughts
and slob on my nob
and breathe the fire of each minute.
We are alone in each sphere,
the sphere of the earth
the sphere of the soul
the orb of the brain
and the balls of my balls,
Are ours so good as this?
How many erections
do you see in the sky?
How much ejaculate
in the wailing cosmos?
I have been here
and i have been there
but i have never been everywhere.
Are ours so good as this?
– Carlo Campanella
