The Kind of Poems I Write

I ought to have a new lover
Get rid of the one I have
As if he were a can with a past–due date.

I ought to drive fast cars,
My hair flying out of the window
As if I were some Rosamund
Riding on a horse.
That’s the kind of poems I write.

I ought to sleep till noon
Lie around on a wide bed
Like wheat over “mother” earth.

I ought not to care about time
Not to move slowly, not to hurry,
To drink each day to its dregs,
Night after night—like a chain smoker—
And step on a butt with my heel.
Words are embers. I burn myself into poetry.
That’s the kind of poems I write.

I ought to wear tight dresses,
Drape my shoulders with furs,
Wear high heels on my heels,
Paint myself and cover myself with jewels
Like a Christmas tree—
So my own mother doesn’t recognize me.

I ought to be cheerful, smiling, flirty
To sing and dance till 3. A.M.
Mindful of my sex appeal
When some stud approaches me.
That’s the kind of poems I write.

Thorns, bumbles bees and bees with their stingers
Ought not to touch me.
With my handkerchief I’ll wipe every worry and wrinkle
As if they were drops of sweat on my forehead.

I ought to have enough dough
For rent, taxes and few more things.
Money comes handy when there’s nothing else.
When kisses are misplaced, when words all trickle out.
With money one can breathe on credit!

I ought to tan my body on some rock
Far from the piers of Disaster.
I ought to emigrate from the land of Apathy
To the land of Wishes
So I can desire all and renounce nothing.
I ought to bathe myself in scented bubbles,
Draw a razor to some vein.
That’s the kind of poems I write.