I am a poet, yes, but I sing only of
what I know, and all of that is
bicycles, the cries of the giraffe,
loneliness, and walks on
radioactive beaches.
So what is this, when you
ask me to write a love poem?
For three days, I have sat and
tried to write; and from my hand
has only come three arduous lines:
"I shall **** your ******* so hard
that your external **** sphincter shall
forever cease to function."
What the hell was that, I beseech you?
Our poets down the ages, have
written love poems on their paramours' blue
eyes, their raven-black hair, their fair
faces, yet mine is of my lover's rear?
Alas, this love song is no better than
a eunuch's, as it lacks compassion,
eroticism, sentimental
tear-filled eyes and superficial flirting words.
It is nothing fit for a Valentine's Day card.
But know, my darling, my aim was true;
I wished only to express my love for you.
At your disdain, your unhappiness, with my
threat toward an orifice, I've written five
lines of some things that I do happen to know:
"The weeping giraffe,
rode his blue bike
in silence,
down the contaminated beach,
lamenting his loneliness."
In the tears of that giraffe can be found
my great love for you.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
I am a poet, yes, but I sing only of
what I know, and all of that is
bicycles, the cries of the giraffe,
loneliness, and walks on
radioactive beaches.
So what is this, when you
ask me to write a love poem?
For three days, I have sat and
tried to write; and from my hand
has only come three arduous lines:
"I shall **** your ******* so hard
that your external **** sphincter shall
forever cease to function."
What the hell was that, I beseech you?
Our poets down the ages, have
written love poems on their paramours' blue
eyes, their raven-black hair, their fair
faces, yet mine is of my lover's rear?
Alas, this love song is no better than
a eunuch's, as it lacks compassion,
eroticism, sentimental
tear-filled eyes and superficial flirting words.
It is nothing fit for a Valentine's Day card.
But know, my darling, my aim was true;
I wished only to express my love for you.
At your disdain, your unhappiness, with my
threat toward an orifice, I've written five
lines of some things that I do happen to know:
"The weeping giraffe,
rode his blue bike
in silence,
down the contaminated beach,
lamenting his loneliness."
In the tears of that giraffe can be found
my great love for you.
For Catullus.
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