Sex, sex,
sex,
sex, sex,
is not the poetry
I would have you write.
Sex was
just the pretext
to set you free
so you'd get it right
and be
able to express
in any context
a bit of originality.
Can't you see the light?
Are you
perplexed?
What is next
in the self-made fantasy
that you dream day and night?
From the
text
of your "epistle about sex,"
I see you're beginning to see
that my leaving was not a slight,
but a test
in order to impress
you that your stupid movie
life is just an imaginary flight.
So don't
mess
with the excesses
of imagination and self-pity
which make your life a miserable plight,
and mix
up art and sex.
Get back to reality! You don't need me
even if our sex was "all right."
All
the best,
Alexis
(I changed my name, you see,
when I left you that night.)