ioane, here it is - the room they chop children into

I feel young. so young.

I am here in this musty ward

among sweaty breasty women

in flowered print dresses

goitrous women

with thick hair on their legs and armpits

with what ease one talks here

of death

and men stinking of plum brandy

who climb on top of the women

(cause “the man climbs on top and then leaves”)

after a few minutes it’s over

if it has been anything else apart from

that spasm that reminds of death and disgust

you come here and you bring me oranges

you come here and you bring me oranges

three times you come here and you bring me oranges

you’d better take notes

to write ... a handbook on lame women mating