MAX'S MOANS.

A MAN BEMOANS A SHALLOW LOVER.

I see only dark alleys
and hear dull talk,
Max said,
cum imbecillitate
corporis vita
as the Romans
might have said.

She has gone from me
and off to another;
flittering from man to man
like some butterfly,
flapping her wings,
her bright colourings,
le papillon
I named her.

Well named
the b***h.

Should have torn off
her wings when I
had her last.

Spread wings
and open arms.

La chienne.

She promised much
as they all do
while being filled
and her fruits adored.

Now I have only
her stale perfume.

Wounds where her
talons scratched.

But there was love once,
once upon a time
as tale tellers begin.

That time
in that Parisian
hotel room where
she undressed me
to the sound
of some French tart
(on the radio)
singing an aria
from La Boheme.

She so anxious for it
that she almost
began without me.

Time comes,
time goes.

I see only dark alleys
and hear dull talk.

I do remember
the mouthing
of her fruit,
the sucking
of her toes.