If I am the only man?
I will never again
Write love poems!
I’ll demand them.
The world will need
My ejaculate seed.
I will comply,
With a keen, discerning eye,
My pleasure the only thing which can save the world.
In China—passionate to restore
Her race—I will happily pour,
In a determined ceremony of bliss,
My future. (There might not be time to kiss.)
“O sexy Chinese women!” No one cares that I say this.
I will say anything—or nothing.
I will be a most happy king.
My glory was scattered, and this was best;
Glory does not belong in a narrow glass.
I roamed free under the sun, but let that pass.
Now I have important work to do
For all mankind, not you.
Indian women! O Parvati! don’t delay!
My fountain! And the most precious of the liquid will stay.
The future will see to it I am never alone.
I will be as sunny and bold as a Walt Whitman poem.
I revel in the sweet and sunny arrogance of the American, Walt Whitman!
To the Middle East! Greeted by the choicest women!
In my loins, the greatest prophet lurks,
Religious icon, as long as my spraying works.
Every saint who receives
My future, in the saints believes.
On to England, where woman’s lips are thin;
A freckle the source of all my sin.
But is there sin anymore
When I’m the only man on the shore?
And when I get to Africa, delicious black
Keeps me for awhile, before that hue is back.
I no longer dream. I am the dreams
Which dream other dreams.
Nothing is beautiful. It only seems
So, when you get love from the streams.
Water and wanting are aligned.
The dearest pleasure is kind.
No more minding the now, with its sorrow.
No more romance, or rivalry. I love tomorrow.
