mercredi 17 juillet 2019

I am a man with no ambitions 
And few friends, wholly incapable 
Of making a living, growing no younger,
Fugitive of some just doom.
Lonely, ill-clothed, what does it matter?
At midnight I make myself a jug
Of hot white wine and cardamon seeds. 
In a torn grey robe and old beret, 
I sit in the cold writing poems, 
Drawing nudes on the crooked margins,
Copulating with sixteen year old
Nymphomaniacs of my imagination.

Kenneth Rexroth

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