#poetry - puffins

when i first came to this earth
i only thought about two things
to have sex with beautiful women
and how to eat a puffin

its high time
i eat a puffin

#poetry - I've just seen it

you don't want sex
because you've had a lot of girls.

i'm 32 years old.

what's that supposed to mean?
tell me.

it means, i've seen it.

seen what?

it.
don't tickle me, i've just seen it,
nothing else, just it.
by the way, i love your tea its.

#poetry - the lionesses growl

the lionesses growl
they cannot have their claim
they went on the hunt and wow!
the lion showed his mane.

they lie flat and lick
while he eats their catch,
they look about and wink,
knowing he is their catch.

#poetry - making sway the unmonster way

i will be your unmonster, baby
and come to you in the break of day.
i will take the apple from your hand
and place it back in the tree
where it will stay.

can you handle that power, baby?
won't you give it a whirl anyway?
there could be something grand
and fulfilling in this sea
of your erring way.

yes, i will be your unmonster, baby
you will take what i am about to say
to the grave but not for a thousand
years yet or more---for we
gonna be making sway.

#poetry - morality

the only morality
is that the virgin
be left to the virgin
and no other come between.

down on the bower going down

the fucking creatures of this world
never cease by their arts to amaze me

regard the bower birds on the ground
in the long hours of their mating season

the males construct earthen structures
with complexities of inverse proportion

inverse to the unquestionable beauty
beaming out the chest of their plumage

the females amble into and through
the wards of their could-be desires

and if the high walls with surrounding treasures
and hues conquer enough they act subdued

and to the nearest branch they go and call
and hoist a tail feather then wait and are taken

but then it happens sometimes a female will
after the act recognize another bower she likes better

and she will course then through its heart
inciting a thrill in the body of its maker

the new male will meet her on her regular branch
and he will greet her from behind with his beak

where he picks the semen of the errant lover out
from within the body of this mistaken female

and then he plants a seed for his own future
and secures it by destroying the nearest bowers

amazing these birds are artists engaged in intrigue
that parallels closely human life and courting ritual

and is it a great divide between their promiscuity
and ours that waters my eyes and leaves a bad taste in my mouth

knowing bower birds do not need machine guns
to kill each other and neither do we?

love, after nilsson

life isn't easy when one becomes queasy and the other
keeps cooking the same ole supper that mixes and mashes
all of the acids festering one's stomach.

how does it happen the menu is splendid
the venue is better and one is suggesting
a pairing of ocean with vineyard to swirl in the stomach?

oh when it started the cocktail was easy
the waitress was crazy the evening was lazy
but the conversation kept changing the mood in the stomach.

discomfort growing now brewing a crisis
look at the watch a scotch with no ice please
toes are now fisted and fire is raging the stomach.

then came the moment which follows the torture
and forsaking judgment for an ounce of pleasure
climatic waves and silence except in the stomach.

no life is easy when one is so queasy all others
are cooking the same ole supper mixing and matching
all of the habits that burn in the pit of one's stomach.

huge belly, thin legs, cares but no wants

right now he has a big huge belly
hangs over his belted pants
surprisingly thin tiny legs and no butt.

he wears a black hat and thin rim glasses
and struggles out to the garbage cans
i hear him grunt and fuss with the bags.

he smokes a cigarette and peers across
the street into the neighbors houses
then checks the mail and goes inside.

mai thai

my sweet little mai thai---
this body is yours, but mine to ravage.
for i here am a rum savage.
i have come from across the ocean,
on a ship they call the Constitution.

we launched two years ago
with eighty thousand gallons of water
and no rum but what sweated from our pores.
that is, of course, till we reached
caribbean shores.

we traded forty thousand gallons of water

was pleased to make your acquaintance

i woke up when you did
but unlike you i remembered my name
and where i was and who i was with

i probably should have left you
right where i found you
but calculations dominated my thoughts

i did not slip you the roofie
but i did prosper by the slipping
for a time that is now gone by

you are awake and i am dumb
to explain the who, what, why
except to say this is here, i am i

was pleased to make your acquaintance
and would like to do so again.

the butterfly

she is a butterfly. her life is about the dance,
a flitting of places and thoughts and feelings.
she is never in one place longer than an exhale,
except when she finds my open palm.

my palm is always open. it is more reliable
than anything she finds in her flitting day.
when she lands, she rests and after wards
wishes for ears on the palm. so ears grow.

she talks of her day spent flitting, high and low,
and wishes for a mouth to appear on the palm.
a mouth appears and words come out in a way
to effect a safeness she loves and can sleep by.

any longer spent, she would soon wish for more parts
to grow and appear. her next wish is for strong arms
and back muscles and glutes and genitalia
so she may continue flitting in a childbearing way.

she holds this wish in check with fluttering.
she cannot see her future beyond the palm
and grows restless and angry, flying out to meet the beyond.
if she survives, she will return again but only to yearn.

Sex Without Love by Sharon Olds

Sex Without Love by Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health—just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.

Player’s Prayer

Playmate!
Come out and play with Me.
The game is Ecstasy—
Ravage the Apple tree,
Burn out the Rainbow,
Knock down the Cherub’s door—
We’ll rewrite History
With oohs and ah-ah-Ahs…
                              Ya? Ya!

while saturn snores

while saturn snores, we listen---
our dear sinister city,
we know what treasure you hold.
your fine chests are bare,
giving to touch,
harder than gold---
last night was pretty
                we are sure.
this morning, cold--
and whereby silver
light we would stare,
soft morning light
here unfolds a curious curtain,
      and this much we are certain--
that no act is played
upon this stage without
an audience attending---
and though we must admit
we did not witness it,
the happening, yet of course,
we know what happened,
and so by this course
            we are attendant
for by some merit
we are here and able
to trespass backstage
     and, with control
but not impediment, take note---
warranted and well-versed,
gentle in our regard, and
fearless to make inference
from such evidence:
                   the ash of trays
that is what became
of smoke and grass
and gentle laughs.
a lip smeared glass
with amber hue,
and a goblet stained
           blood red.
a corkscrew still
screwing blood red cork,
lain beside and bereft
its sip full bottle
long sipped of brew
           they all point fingers
to molted clothing
that trace one wild
ragged path to a ravaged
sweat stained bed
stripped of clothing
but for dented pillows
dented by one or more head.
      and then on to some small packages
unwrapt, that with some
tissue paper strewn
and with some issue
thrown from one end
of one member
             across the room---
evidence that
             let us be certain
what happened
behind this happy curtain
                and still
as light enters
aslant, ashamed
to touch nothing
more willing or ready
than this dusty floor,
egg-shell walls
still but slightly
in staccato form
reverb the echoes
of the night before.
                       so then
our dear sinister city,
indeed, last night was pretty
but alas, this morning is cold.
     for your god of saturn sleeps now
and while we know what his dreams hold
and what company he keeps
and what treasures you store
     yet we know what treasures were found,
that by this morning light you glisten
     and they are soft to touch
     more treasured than gold
     kept well behind
certain curious curtains
that blow listless and unbound.
for this we have seen by some merit
and by some merit
        now we listen----
sipping that sound,
of the night before
entranced by the echoes
of saturn's snore.

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