As a wildly vivid erotic dream with an Asian-looking female writer fades away from my memory, I sit on my couch and watch Netflix. I mean, more like Netflix is a background noise that makes using Tinder a bit less pathetic and, at the same time, resembles -somewhat- an activity. Because we gotta do something on Friday night, don’t we? Or I feel compelled to. “Single and looking,” you know.
That dream, fuck… so weird and hot. I am pretty sure there was some anal sex involved. And some witty conversation. And the whole Asian thing, which isn’t particularly attractive to me, in this fantasy was mind-blowing. And so was the fact that I knew the girl was a writer, which made it all arousing as fuck. Well, the anal sex helped, of course. And the lack of sex in my real life -as of this week at least.
I was trying to remember the girl in the dream on my commute to work. Then I gave up and started reading a book of poems from Bukowski. Suddenly, a muse came to me and a poem set in my head. I wrote it down on my phone.
I gave you the power to destroy me
And you mastered it
Breaking not only my heart
But every cell
Every molecule and atom
Of my spirit
Of my soul.
L, young woman
May all Glory come to you!
You are a prodigy
In the fine craft
Of using love
To bring pain.
Perhaps poetry is not my thing, but I got the fuel: a fucked up relationship and a die hard resentment towards my ex. That gotta come in handy for something, I hope. Or vanish. Like the Asian girl from my dream. Or, in a few days from now, the cold wind of Copenhagen.