I met the woman from Willendorf
as a teen in a history textbook
and during my first nocturnal emission,
marking the infertile oolite
floor tiles—though it wasn’t until I met her
incarnation a decade later
that my manhood went limp,
facing her proportions.
Cro-Magnons are remembered
for Venus figurines—
what if our best-known invention
will be fat wars?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Sometimes you have to have faith in yourself,
even when the mirror screams ‘old and ugly’
and your desire for sex—meaningless or otherwise—
no longer goes beyond the topic of an article in a rag
casually opened while waiting at the hairdresser’s,
or so they say, and there may be some truth to it—
atheists decorate Christmas trees too, after all—
but it’s hard to shake the hand that just castrated you.
I read somewhere that the four-dimensional
topology of the human body is trivial,
and I thought there must be something to it,
because when I look at my feeble carcass
in the mirror after a lukewarm shower,
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m looking
at a misshaped earthworm on a rainy day;
the latter, at least, has first loosened the soil,
not their tongue.
