Ballad of Lovely Masturbator or, After Sexton
At end of this affair is always life.
I'm his workshop. Slippery, sly,
out of my multitudes, dank and rife,
halting breath—that bird must fly.
Garters below my sable,
at light, I moan, I marry my table.
Their skin to mine, this blaze is borne.
I stand here now; they are my master.
They take me down to Hell with such scorn,
that I only get to Heaven faster.
They stroke, then snatch, on my head my hair.
At light, I yelp, I marry my chair.
Take for instance those days, my hate,
that every single couple builds like shelving
with that thorough destruction of every plate
and her cuts that can't be stopped from swelling.
Like Polish goats, we butt our heads.
At light, I wail, I marry two beds.
I break out of my body deluxe,
this absurdity of might. Could I
force this stale moment to its crux?
I'm too determined to abide.
I am brown bear, and you—black boar.
At light, I howl, I marry my door.
Then another being came.
Our lady of flagstaffs rising o'er each roof,
Her wont was me to pacify, tame.
Her sweet cudgel its own proof.
And I was then from Valhalla brought.
At light, I whine, I marry my cot.
They took me that way some person picks
some pair of pants off their floor
and they wore me like some tight fit,
like no other pair had fit before.
I won't their name call, my teeth enclench'd.
At light, I bay, I marry my bench.
Those boys become these girls tonight.
They now put on stockings. They long socks pull.
Girls strap on tricks. They turn up all lights.
These glimmering creatures are true in full.
Let us now eat each other, for we know us best!
At light, I groan, I marry my desk.