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Poem

To the lust of wine, he has been judiciously celibate
exactly the mark of four decades is a reason to go gaga
taking the road of this pleasure, even if it is once in a lifetime
he sees five percent on a bottle so attractive but it’s actually twenty five
walloping in the mood he asks for number two but it’s already four
on his way to heaven he thinks but under the street light he walks
on his doorstep he sees an energetic Miss Minaj 
not at all knowing it is tired, sweaty grandma
takes the nearby perfume for an unusual spray
loh and behold it is an insecticide
searches with the slider, for frequency on the stereo
Lord, it’s the gas turner he operates
sounds of no signal he converts from the aggressive fleeing gas
impossibility embraces his mind
from the observation of his non-living room
is that the cat on a miniskirt? Or his wife oiled around her body with ketchup?
he speaks of tasting a dog’s breast milk
and inscribing a permanent tattoo on his tongue
right in his front, Rihanna twerks
he grabs with all pleasure but with arms around the TV
on his way back to the kitchen with a cigarette
party screams he hears but are disturbing panics
just half a minute ago, smelly diffusion hints on a fishy joke
lights the match stick in a room full of gas
or consciousness to come back with nothing to remember
lies in the midst of standing angels
as the nurses care with so much anxiety and pity
wrapped all round by white sheets of healing
he blames others for not undoing his carelessness.

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