Sometimes I feel like Mr. Linea, always surprised
by the abrupt end of the line and yet chasing birds
away from the twittering machine mercilessly
hanging in my bedroom full of silhouettes.
And while each fight may seem a bit superficial,
all the previous ones were won with relative ease.
In fact, all I had to do was check every morning
if I still knew how to breathe in and out, casually
count the heartbeats left until the last one,
and indulge in a few other guilty pleasures.
I had my first orgasm on the couch in my parents’ bedroom under a shoddy reproduction of the Black Madonna of Czestochowa. I was about twelve and reading a book as usual when I felt this strange tingling sensation in my crotch. Intrigued by an unknown feeling, I reached there with my hand, and when I touched my willy, it started to grow, and each subsequent touch was more pleasant, so I started stroking it until it finally became as stiff as a stick, so I grabbed it in my hand and started rhythmically—well, you know the mechanics of that. I don’t know how, but I instinctively knew what to do. While I was doing this, I kept staring at the face of the Black Madonna, sad as if she were upset because of me and what I was doing. It didn’t take long before an unexpected spasm hit my body, and something unknown gushed forth from the organ that had previously only been used for peeing. And just like that, I discovered that there is more to life than books and grandma’s cream puffs, and that pleasure is laced with guilt.
I bought the ugliest curtains
I could find—so ugly that no one wanted them
even on sale. But they cheer me up
every time I walk into my bedroom,
for there is some pitiful beauty in them,
or so I tell myself, because truth be told,
I didn’t do it out of some insatiable sense
of altruism—they were the cheapest,
that’s all. But doesn’t it feel better
to see yourself as an altruist
rather than a miser?
hidden pilcrow 