The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator

The end of the affair is always death. / She’s my workshop. Slippery eye, / out of the tribe of myself my breath / finds you gone. I horrify / those who stand by. I am fed. / At night, alone, I marry the bed. // Finger to finger, now she’s mine. / She’s not too far. She’s my encounter. / I beat her like a bell. I recline / in the bower where you used to mount her. / You borrowed me on the flowered spread. / At night, alone, I marry the bed. // Take for instance this night, my love, / that every single couple puts together / with a joint overturning, beneath, above, / the abundant two on sponge and feather, / kneeling and pushing, head to head. / At night alone, I marry the bed. // I break out of my body this way, / an annoying miracle. Could I / put the dream market on display? / I am spread out. I crucify. / My little plum is what you said. / At night, alone, I marry the bed. // Then my black-eyed rival came. / The lady of water, rising on the beach, / a piano at her fingertips, shame / on her lips and a flute’s speech. / And I was the knock-kneed broom instead. / At night, alone, I marry the bed. // She took you the way a woman takes / a bargain dress off the rack / and I broke the way a stone breaks. / I give back your books and fishing tack. / Today’s paper says that you are wed. / At night, alone, I marry the bed. // The boys and girls are one tonight. / They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. / They take off shoes. They turn off the light. / The glimmering creatures are full of lies. / They are eating each other. They are overfed. / At night, alone, I marry the bed.