The Best Love Poem I Can Write at the Moment; Charles Bukowski

Listen, I told her
why don't you stick your tongue up my ass

no, she said.

well, I said
if I stick my tongue up your ass first
then will you stick your tongue up my ass?

all right, she said.

I got my head down there and looked around
opened a section
then my tongue moved forward

not there, she said
ahhahahaha
not there, that's not the right place

you women have more holes than swiss cheese
I don't want you to do it
why?

well, then I'll have to do it back
and then at the next party you'll tell people
I licked your ass with my tongue

suppose I promise not to tell?

you'll get drunk, you'll tell

o.k., I said
roll over
and I'll stick it in the other place

she rolled over
and I stuck my tongue in that other place

we were in love

we were in love except withwhat I said at parties
and we were not in love
with each others ass holes

she wants me to write a love poem
but I think if people can't love each others ass holes
and farts
and shits
and terrible parts
just like they love the good parts
that ain't complete love

so, as far as love goes
as far as we have gone
this poem will have to do.

PD: Un poco cochino, pero cierto

Further Instructions; Ezra Pound

Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions.
Let us express our envy for the man with a steady job and no worry about the future.
You are very idle, my songs,
I fear you will come to a bad end.
You stand about the streets, You loiter at the corners and bus-stops,
You do next to nothing at all.

You do not even express our inner nobilitys,
You will come to a very bad end.

And I? I have gone half-cracked.
I have talked to you so much that I almost see you about me,
Insolent little beasts! Shameless! Devoid of clothing!

But you, newest song of the lot,
You are not old enough to have done much mischief.
I will get you a green coat out of China
With dragons worked upon it.
I will get you the scarlet silk trousers
From the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella;
Lest they say we are lacking in taste,
Or that there is no caste in this family.

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Ezra Pound aborrece tanto como yo los poemas falsos, los clichés y los: oh! luceros que brillan como... y el Tan prodigiosos como Zeus!; todo esto utilizado para inyectar status al canto, y esto no funciona así ni ha funcionado.
"Cantemos las bajas pasiones como cantamos los actos más tiernos": Si no amamos nuestras mierdas y nuestras estupideces no es el verdadero amor, parafraseando al gran humano Bukowski.
Pues así, no nos arrojemos en formas establecidas, ni creamos que existen; rompamos y seamos Flux. O nuestros cantos serán una blasfemia más viva y a veces inmortal... Insensata.