My imperfections are stilted for the muse:
The deficient vocabularies
I am still learning to sing:
The airy duct my betters use,
To come and go bare-assed in the burning sky:
They don’t even think of modesty,
For their poesy’s diction excuses anything:
Their lines are without modicum of fallacy,
Even though their phalluses are still
The shriveled earthy things of mortality,
It matters not;
For the phallus of their opulent lines
Is better than equine;
And they pollinate the learned sororities
Like randy studs wild in spring-time’s flaxen orgy-
Each receptive woman in studious bud,
Bare-bosomed with horn-rimmed glasses:
They fellatio the masters like bucolic maidens
Filling the wooden pails with milk
Spilt from mouth to mouth,
As if in no hurry to extinguish the blaze-
Turning the hidden stacks into a bullpen
Where I imagined the published poets go
One by one, for book signings and other
Expressions of gratitude:
Greeted in privacy by the blushingly fair complexions
Of their most grateful muses,
The willing paramours of the unblemished rhyme.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem