I can only relate poems to dreams,
that’s why the last three years
I had a few of them
though I’d already denounced myself as a poet;
because escaping from consciousness
is like escaping from the self,
it doesn’t go past skin’s borders.
I’ve counted masturbation sessions as though counting sheep,
without calculating mean or median
or any statistical tricks.
I wanted to say, Love you,
but it came out, Fuck you.
Maybe we can have dinner some time?