Sunday, 6 July 2014

A poem by the Belgian 'Poet of the Fatherland' Charles Ducal (b. 1952)


Her head hung over the washbowl,
her midriff belled her defenceless buttocks.
The moment seemed ordained for the blow,
a simple neck-chop, without any fuss.

He briefly stroked with tormenting finger.
The skin went taut like the film on milk.
His urge got harder. He strove to desire her.
She cooed seductively: is this the moment?

Then he saw himself in the mirror,
the scrawny legs, the shirt that was huge.
The power of love made his eyes grow bigger.
He tweaked her buttocks, in merciful mood.

No comments: