If something had invented eroticism
it must have been loneliness.
The universe was feeling lonely
a sexy planet.
I’m sitting here at the station square
having a quiet beer –
nothing in this world is as quiet as beer –
how it used to be
millions of years ago,
if time is nothing but an illusion
as justice are.
Can you be both just and lonely?
Can the total loneliness be horny
as they are saying
in other parts of the world?
Eroticism is the butcher playing piano
for the steaks tenderizing on the hooks,
the paint dealer painting
a guernica on himself,
the news agent masturbating
in the morning paper.
Eroticism is the root of music,
ballroom dances before anyone
has taken a step,
eroticism is the ruptured virginity
long before the existence of virgins,
eroticism is the mother of rivers,
eroticism looks like a pig
that never started lessons in music.
Specks of dust are meeting in the air
floating easily among each other,
half a dozen landing gently on my hand.
Deep down in the water the tiny sea cucumbers are making love,
in Jokkmokk a reindeer bull is staring
at the rock cleft;
if it was possible I would fuck my shadow
of any sort.