I wanted to write a poem about death
but it ended up being about sex.
Death is beautiful if set to music,
preferably by a German composer.
The French call an orgasm “the little death.”
My favorite porno is Triumph of the Will.
Prague erupts with the sweet music
of a Sten gun jamming and a bomb going off.
At the Auschwitz Museum,
I try on the bifocals of murdered Jews.
The Jews of Vienna were forced to scrub the streets;
I fantasize about licking a jackboot until it shines.
If G-d exists, It’s a poet.
(Only a poet could invent blood poisoning.)
I could never be an academic historian—
my mind’s a veritable nation of perversities.
A good German is hard to find.
Herr Reichsprotektor, fuck me from behind.