Eroticism, poem by Peter Poulsen

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If something had invented eroticism

it must have been loneliness.

The universe was feeling lonely

and attacked

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 loneliness

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

without precautions

of any sort.

Peter Poulsen