You painted your penis
gold,
as if it had the Midas
touch,
at night perambulating
through the shades
and shadows of our
halls and atria;
your magic wand
setting off sensors,
which made the walls
contract,
loving the febrile
magician.
One last gift for your
loving wife,
jawbones carved from
mahogany,
so that I could run my
fingers over them adoringly.
Statuary were replaced
by phallic totems,
with hypnotic
waterfall motions,
which you would gaze
at endlessly.
My flower beds were
brutishly ripped out,
replaced with seas of
red hot pokers,
waving like a
torturers' feast;
and in my pools
genetically modified lilies
float flush with
clitoral lips.
One night I found you
laid out on the lawn,
your lips and mouth
were full of pollen,
heart beating like a
hummingbird,
mind droning like a
bee.
Later, as you sat on
the veranda,
straight-backed,
priapic,
daintily chewing a
pomegranate;
I made one last play
for you,
joining with the
android butler,
to form an intimate
and teasing sculpture,
my breasts hanging
like the gardens of Babylon.
Serene, you neither
panted nor drew your breath,
the insouciant
wilderness of your mind
consuming the
significant form of my art.
And then I programmed
the android to love you.
And now I am leaving
you my dear Narcissus,
for your lover has
become a distant echo,
lost against the self
referential background,
of your tantric thrall
and thrum.