His Usual Routine... Poem by RIC BASTASA

last night he made love to her
on longer hours
his tongue working out her nipples
genitals on deeper penetrations
trying to reach the deepest part of
the wells of
their souls

it was unusual

attempting to achieve what was never there for once
new techniques of pleasures
unlearning traditions of
the missionary positions
time is elongated
there is a new fantasy
of an abstract
painting a la
Picasso at the back
of his mind

a woman with two faces
a man with a twisted jaw
a guitar with
a broken string
a river without visible
banks
a ship without a port
abandoned lighthouse
dark clouds
boundless seas
trees without leaves
hands with nails removed
detached arms
half man half horse
a lion with the tails of
a fish
ceiling without beams
rusty nails on walls
about to collapse

(how can he tell her that he never had
an ejaculation?
that there is something in him that is never understood
and tapped)

as lays there in bed
snoring
he stares at the ceiling
silently
composing all the possible
questions
still without any
drafted answers

he is a submarine on uncharted
depths of
deep blue oceans
charting out
the bottom
where due to so much pressure
he shall shrink
like a crumpled
paper