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I’m screaming lying alone in this settlement     everything empty only emptiness sex – is a desert     evening coming home from work desiring on the shopfloor or in the machine or at some other labour of language feel it: there’s nothing there only a desert     coming home from work I’m writing a letter to the first boy why’d you deceive me, you know there’s nothing there nothing nothing only a desert     I’m in the desert alone and desire fades laying sex bare like vision like trembling on the horizon is the body of a dry old man this is my sex this is my future     hundreds of animals will come and hump me a tiger’s sperm leaps toward the clouds monkeys lick my clitoris but none of them will say: ‘sex is a desert’     in the garden of atavisms lifting my skirt, leaning on the barbed-wire fence barely discerning the face in the wilds of bloody tears I, weeping, will say: ‘look at what we were struggling for, marching naked past parliaments, penetrating with phalluses the offices of government no, there’s nothing there, sex is a desert’     I love you and your dead sex still moves me but when I love you I feel: only a desert     the smooth temple of marriage bathed in wine gone bad the raw looks of new lovers the embraces of boys, covered with feces, tears girls with black scars and bright dildos baring their breasts before the river of people dying     what were we struggling for? why all these poems?     the dying camp of peoples in the depths of the analyst you die with them, too, analyst, saying: ‘Desert’ because there is no hidden pleasure in the desert     only sand only heat masturbation and solitude     only womanhood only the desert     crowds of furious men, turning in their zinc coffins crowds of men fondling, flying on a varnished bomb the industry of depravity in space stations, the science of art in the bathhouse all for nothing, procreation is only part of the desert     Kathy, Kathy, wanking off death, I can’t see your face, there’s no dialogue, no strength to tell you how things stand for you, you’re not here, Kathy, the body has no identity in the bitter printed word     the rod in a thrown open bible, student marches little puddles of blood in a dark toilet, where my farewell lament addressed faded out to the dead students and their movement       with knives stuck in the hips with the tender kisses of events I want to say: here is the