I want you under the neon signs of strip-clubs
and at 5 o’clock tea with 5 sugar lumps
and freezing covered with the snow clumps.

I want you when the atom bomb
mushrooms me till I am numb,
till I let my hormones turn me dumb.

I want you with my priestless, unholy heart,
with my red lipstick and presence of a tart,
with my short memory of a spoilt upstart.

I want you in my mediocre poetry,
in all the chances to lose in the lottery,
in the Garden of Gethsemane under a tree.

I want you without success to complete absolution,
without you being here that leads to confusion,
without me in you in our lame fusion.

I want you like a drunkard his bottle,
like a psychopath a victim to throttle,
like a gentle witch a child to coddle.

I want you in my bed, like Delilah, lying,
I want you in my palm, crying and whining,
I want you like all ideal muses. Dying.