You came into my bedroom, ripped the bandage off of your
     face and smeared thin pink blood and clear yellow fluid 
     onto my left shoulder then looked up at me imploringly. 
No, I said, you may not unburden your self here. I want no 
     part of the real you. What I want is down there where the 
     golden urine, the brown richness of laid cable come: that 
     HBO so spicy tasty of fish aged just so and steamy warm. 
I don't think there is anything so friendly as a wet vagina,
      rejection is unthinkable because it doesn't think; no more
      than does that wagging dog penis which wants it. 
But keep your heart, save your soul, close your mind from 
     me. I can't deal. Your most inmost precious thoughts are a
     horror to me: dry zombie/mummie crumblings that drop
     from between your wrappings. I would those bandages be
     sportswrap but, no, toilet paper and usually wet. 
I do not want your look, those eyes, accusing. I have done 
     nothing and that's probably what's wrong. I will not to 
     listen to you ooze nor to feed your ears, delicate pink
     seashell attachments for O.R. suction: "Doctor, will the 
     bleeding never stop?" You should be so lucky. 
I will not to feed those ears. It would please you if I would 
     bleed for you, but I am a man, with no monthlies and only 
     women bleed. So give me your flow and all the fullness of 
     your bottom. You can keep the rest.
"Is that all a man wants a woman for?" you ask, eyes like 
     chrome ballbearings.
What else have you got?