An endless series of novels.
An endless desire for sex.
An endless trying-to-say.
And endless trying-to-show.
An endless series of paintings.
An endless series of sculptures.
An endless superabundance.
An endless overfilled cup.
There are those of us who try to find
That final thing which will still the mind.
But do we want desires to cease?
Do we want our active minds at peace?
The poem which finally says it all.
The prose which shows the finished soul.
The full-filling orgasm.
The at-last-I-have-said-it.
The at-last-I-have-shown-it.
The painting which expresses all.
The sculpture which turns all truth to stone.
A final satisfaction.
The cup is finally emptied.
A dream of death--
A dream of Hell--
A loss of breath--
A dungeon cell--
I must share, I must share my view
Of life--for my sake, not for you.
I never wanted this rare gift, it's true--
But now that I have it, I must confess
It is a curse that manages to bless
My life, transforming all the more from less.
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