Thank God those
febrile nightmares of
youth are gone.
I long for the
numbing fog.
The dust of dreams
linger when I awake,
like a fly in
a glue-trap.
My mind is nebulous as
I try to recall
the nocturnal visits.
Legs tired from running;
cock sore from fucking.
I've played doctor for years
trying to reverse this curse,
prescribing: women, drugs,
booze by the barrels,
searching for that ambrosia,
that nectar of the gods that
makes life less vivid and sharp,
and puts the sleep back in
my eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Legs tired from running; sore from. still, longing, longing for a little more What man, you have created? O God must be on your mind when you made mankind Else, how could your creation survive?