When I think about your vulva
between five and six in the morning,
it’s nothing personal since ‘you’ is generic,
and ‘vulva’ is simply a noun—
no different from ‘elbow’ or ‘eyelid’—
just another item in the formal vocabulary,
and more relevant than your vagina,
which I’ve never seen, as I’m not a gynaecologist
but a poet looking for an adequate response
to a misnomer.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
If masturbation turns into a weekly chore
and yet you find yourself more concerned
with the grammatical adequacy of the sentiment
than its implications—where does it leave you?
After all, there was a time an afternoon nap
might have been just an inclination,
but now it’s a must.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I envy those who venture forth
into the seagulls’ hunting ground—
also known as the Morrisons car park—
with a Chicken Caesar Wrap
or a sausage roll in their hands, as if they knew
that nociception is not the pain
of appetitions I only know
from a thesaurus.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Romantic love is the desire for copulation,
embellished with the timid glances of a sonnet,
unless you are a eunuch who settles for lyricism
out of barren necessity.
Is that why I would rather have an empty bed
than empty shelves?
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.
