Two Poems Christopher Bernard Christopher Bernard Page 1   [Listen to readings of these poems.] This Time of Year This time of year, desire breaks out like a stinking rash, my ego melts like a rod of pig iron, the air is poisoned with a sweetness, I know no rest, the air cuts like glass, I go stupid and crazy, my loins are on fire. I hate it, I despise it, I loathe it, I detest it, and yet I am filled with it, with implacable . . . This time of year, my groin and my hands become intimate friends, my brain is a bonfire, my heart is a tramp, I pace my apartment, I stalk the streets, I fall in love with every woman I meet. I hate it, I despise it, I loathe it, I detest it, and yet I am filled with it, with implacable . . . This time of year, every lover I ever had slinks through my mind with my name on her lips, she smiles and she scorns with sadistic calm, she scalds my ego and wilts my prick with acid eyes and laughs me sick. I hate it, I despise it, I loathe it, I detest it, and yet I am filled with it, with implacable . . . This time of year, I am in love with life and I wish I were dead, the roses are wet from the cuts in my heart, I lash and I rage at the receding dark, I roll in torment in my lonely bed.