[Sex]ting with Self

I'm spreading ink
of loud mauves and yellows.
Obsessed
with colors, beauty.
I'm blowing words,
mantra-laced percussions,
seduced by rhetoric.
Words fall,
splatter the notepad;
a cringe worthy text
is the result.
I'm hearing,
multitasking,
writing,
more or less cognizant,
less than more ignorant.
I'm wrestling,
jugando de mano,
jeringando,
with the boy.
My toys are not tridimensional.
They are not made of plastic.
I'm a man.
Ideas are the object
of my ludic urges.
Knowledge is the blood
that rushes
at the service
of a phallic frontal lobe.
Getting off on ideas,
written by two thumbs,
perhaps the most rebelious
act against the absurdity,
the beauty,
of being a Man-Child.
"Si te tocas, ciego serás,
si piensas mucho,
te vuelves loco."