SEX AND DESIRE

First Orgasm

As I recall the premiere orgasm,

my tiny, rigid, electric pecker,

erect, the size of your baby finger,

was as hard as any other bone,

when suddenly, slowly but suddenly,

it tingled tremendously pleasurably.

This memory, now, is being told,

three score and more years beyond the event,

and may, in some ways, be inexact,

conflated with lying abed, perhaps,

and pulling on countless other occasions,

but in this case, as instructed by Ronnie

earlier that day in the schoolyard.

It came as a great (really great) surprise

that ran along the following lines:

Yowie! Zowie! And Holy Cowie!

A thrill from within that I control!

Am I ever gonna be happy alone!

Pertaining To The Love Poems Of Peter Rabbit

Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail,

all that pink centerfold that never says no,

Peter's mother, especially when he was sick,

even Farmer MacGregor, chasing him with the hoe,

everywhere he looked was sex.

He lived in a hole, so help me God.

Trying to be decent was of no avail.

He almost never thought outside the box.

The world was made for his embrace.

And who could refuse? No one sensible.

He was just too loving and lovable.

What a hugger!

What a beastly cheeky, eager clasp!

And what a backbone Peter had!

More play than a fiberglass fishing pole!

What a lively and friendly humping he gave!

He was Thumper and Bambi and Bongo and Lulabell

and Woody Woodpecker, all rolled into one.

Is it any wonder he was popular?

A Walking Contradiction

Is there anything over my arse at all?

she asked herself with her left hand

unconsciously as she ushered a man

to his seat in the foremost stall.

There was, of course, a miniskirt,

so small the draft must have been substantial,

and my eyes, although no one can tell

what palpable force they exert.

She returned to her place at the back, a cupid

and phalanx of upright fauns behind,

the lot of them so far from her mind,

she would think anyone who saw them stupid.

Coquette

Women like certain adjectives— devastating, smashing—

the suggestion that an entire world could come crashing

around the head of a man who, at most, is called dashing.

This notion of female potency, I think,

is irresponsible, especially to someone on the brink

of harm, havoc, a pathetic collapse into using ink

Like this. That sense of power in the female sex,

that amounts to a base thrill in its ability to hex

the male so that he crumbles from within and wrecks

His order and peace of mind— to make him squirm and condemn

his stability for a chance to touch her, kiss the hem—

is bad. And if women like it, I'm against them.

But not the one who spoils my soul,

who stands aloof, the quiet coquette, the white coal

in my heart's furnace, too hot to let it live life whole.

The Superbad Love Championship Of The World

Is brought to you by:

Mainline Pussy, The Makers of Everything!

And Gillette True Blades!

Voice 1: Round 1!

Ok! he's looking strong, Marty! It seems like a mismatch from

here. She's got tits and weak muscles, no beard. He's asking the

referee to stop it. That's prob'ly fair would you say?

Voice 2: Yeah I'd say, Howard. It's nice he thought of her though,

championing her side. Ha! Ha!

Voice 1:! HEY! WAIT! SHE FLATTENED HIM! RIGHT WHEN HE WAS

BEING NICE TO HER! EEEEEOW! OH! HEY! SHE'S JUMPIN’ UP AND

DOWN ON HIS EGO! OH! SHE'S KICKING HIM! OH! HEY! RIGHT IN

THE EGO! HOLY SUFFERING PECKERTRACKS! THERE GOES HIS

HOPE! I MEAN SHE... IT'S DESTROYED! SHE... HE HAS NONE!

ZERO! HE'S CALLING FOR A TIME OUT! Marty, what about his

hope? Can that be restored?

Voice 2: Yeah, Howard, I don't know. We'll see what he can do in

his time out. I don't know. The referee is warning her.

I'd disqualify her, myself.

Voice 1: SHE'S THROWIN’ OUT THE REFEREE! HE'S OUT ON HIS

ASS! HOLY SHIT! NOW SHE'S GOT HIM BY THE LIBIDO AGAIN!

HIS FEELINGS ARE TOTALLY UNDER HER HEEL! TOTALLY! AND IS

SHE GRINDING THEM! I CAN'T WATCH IT! OH! IT’S LIKE A BAD

CAR ACCIDENT! Would you say, Marty?

Voice 2: Well, it looks from here like she's gonna skin him. Yup.

She's takin’ his entire hide. He already said he gave up but

it doesn't make any difference to her. I would ban a woman

like that from love altogether.

Voice 1: SHE'S SALTING HIM DOWN! SHE SKINNED HIM AND NOW

SHE'S PICKLING HIM FOR LATER USE! WHAT A BAD SPORT! I AM

TOTALLY EXHAUSTED! Marty, what do you think?

Voice 2: I'm leaving, Howard

Dithyramb In 18 Parts

1.

In a dream, my forearm cupped her ribs,

held her against me, thighs and waist,

and brought permission from her eyes.

Awake, I was disturbed, sorry—

married man likes younger wench—

but wavering, so I called her up

to offer the marshmallow, my brain,

and remark upon some little detail,

acting polite as she acted politer,

until the wires withered with indifference.

Life may be too long for this,

fighting the wish a day at a time.

Take tonight as one example:

determined to leave her alone, I am

writing this on my way to bed,

smoking, drinking, thinking the sin

of mailing it like a poor fool...

but I do want to bed her so.

2.

And yet am dumb in her presence, like a horse.

Will you receive me? Please. If I help?

Think of me as a freezing horse.

And think of yourself as shelter.

Say, Come in, horse, I trust in your goodness,

and want you, however short the season.

Then I will act as you wish in return,

pleading decently at your threshold,

murmuring, restless, hopeful and patient.

Let me in and your planks will creak.

You will moan for joy and not the wind.

Take my heat and it's ours compounded.

Hold me before I dissipate.

3.

Or if you prefer, consider me a prick.

Sink this thing I am, I offer,

a mindless being in grateful receipt

of the donations you make of it to yourself.

Couple with me.

Take what broom I am and sweep my mind.

Brush it away, light as powder.

Change it to something less than the wind, a whisper,

whispering against your cheek. Please, oh please, let me.

4.

Take me! I am cornered! Mere muscle.

Trapped blood. Scattered wits.

Unseeing. Writing the offer I cannot speak:

Take me and what you will have is a prick.

Don't stand on ceremony. Smile and say I'm old enough.

Treat it as your half-animate doll, something you play with

by yourself, a hot-headed, red-faced puppet, likely to explode,

a little soldier who drools to be beneath your skirts,

where he goes crazy and starts shooting,

because he owes his life to you,

and wants to die in your service.

Give him a name. You know his type.

Dress him up in his rubber suit,

a bathtub toy used naughty ways;

then put him away, to wake at your call,

or his imagining it. See him swell and stand for you.

Say I am the queen. Attention prick. Stand if you want me to sit

on you. And he'll always do the best he can. Notice how it fits your hand.

Find how it swells your heart with pride to have ownership of

everything, both sides, and, if you have no appetite,

detonate him outright. And another day,

when you're hungry enough, say, Prick,

you may kiss your favorite chum.

I think I want you to drive a while;

then lie there on your tummy, propped.

Pound me, pestle. Say that. Say I'm in the mood for a dynamo to

fuck me until I forget my cares. Love me

until I say to stop, and I want your solid follow-through

I feel in my cheeks and spinal column

to remember nicely on other days.

And another day, say Go away broom.

Say, I'm in the mood for a long, live tongue

to lap at the prickly trough of love.

Tongue me lightly, senseless one,

you who are a part of my rod. Then button

onto my clitoris and tongue it until I shout enough,

cry no in excessive ecstasy and allow my soldier to take a dip.

And on a day when you’re uncertain,

empty and yet within my reach,

I will seize you, thinking nothing to please you,

but only to seize you, as a rooster takes a pullet,

swallow you into my physical strength,

put you under that ancient shroud of male fever,

hard, fierce, thoughtless and quick,

flashing savagely through your gate

to coat your very uterus, paint your whole insides

with the charge of reproductive savagery that fills me to this,

and get off, leaving you to adjust your feathers.

Although after, I will be meek and fearful, tender,

seeking forgiveness, dumb with the pain of wanting you

to tolerate me, not despise, to try to accept and begin to love,

hear me softly hoping, as now, you think of me

as a freezing horse.

5.

My heart is a source and sink of lust, pushing a slush

of primitive blood. The thing has an appetite for more,

insatiable as the grave. It draws a bead on the beautiful

and craves, conceding nothing.

Your heart is a vessel of useful love,

unspent, unspoiled, and yet unplumbed,

a rhythm of natural strength is there, magnificent

in its innate aims, a working center of future lives.

And what a gracious house it has! Forgive my sordid hunger.

6.

But my body has gone a-jangle.

my main aim has become to tangle

limbs with you, to be taken

into that gracious house and shaken

in the reaches of your gaze,

those rich brown, knowing eyes ablaze

with ownership that I can’t escape.

I want to quake! I want a rape

of my mind by your whim!

I want a loss! A swim!

To feel you listen as I cry,

Oh please, dear woman, let me die

a controlled and coldly heated death

as the well-aimed wretch whose breath

knew none of this quick, beseeching hunger!

Please you, please! Become the plunger

and the plunged and plunging,

everything! Absolve me please, expunging

consciousness and shame! Give me a new name,

whatever will amuse you! Tame

and undomesticate this beast

I crave to become, to kiss your feet,

at least your hand, oh, let me kiss your hand!

Lead me into you with that! Give me the grand

sense of being nothing but the pupil of your timing!

Take me climbing in the dark cloud of your wild soul

and make me burst in a shower of unwhole

particles that rain, only because you reign!

7.

You wanted to flirt, I, to be hurt,

we've had a lot of a rich dessert;

we're going to be sick.

But oh, the fever! Could it get worse?

It frightens me to be known by verse.

This love is approaching madness, art.

8.

If love is a contest of being weak,

if success is equated with helplessness,

results measured in cups of tears,

lost sleep, distracted listening,

confusion of purpose, diagnosable hysteria,

a willingness to surrender

and all-round derangement,

I win so easy you look like rock.

9.

This is it, the last love poem.

Tired of being sorry, I become innocent,

modern, know myself for a caveman.

My will be done on Earth as it was made in Heaven.

I am a spaceman, have nothing to do with you,

am as lost and out of date as the dead and remote unborn.

Dig me. Send me. Hang me. It's all the same.

I can walk on air, breathe dirt, understand women.

If I am immoral my crimes are committed constantly

and I cannot distinguish among them,

cannot imagine them being ridden by your eyes.

I write in a void, not for you, emotional cripple,

too civilized for such words, too legal for such mistakes,

too temperate for quick love, too wise for loose charity,

too satisfied to take a fall.

Yes, this is certainly the last love poem.

I offer it and take it back. I boast.

I am older than you, and younger, better.

I need you.

10.

Now listen, Trigger,

You have a home, you dirty thing,

you long, unsheathed cock,

you keep away from my sweet spring,

my doors to you I lock.

Oh nay! Dear Princess! Oh I neigh!

Say nay, it isn't so!

I cannot bring myself to say

I've heard you tell me go.

’Tis so, you filthy foundling,

I don't care if you freeze,

I hear through all your snuffling,

’tis you you long to please.

Alas! I am read too well by you,

I droop my ignoble head.

I'll amble down the road to Lou,

and sorrowfully take her bed.

Now wait, this Lou, who might she be?

That's not how you call your wife.

Do you mean to say that not having me,

you could still corrupt your life?

Alas! I shrink to need reply,

’tis so, for I'm full of charge,

and though the apple of my eye

refuse me, the orchard's large.

Oh well, if there is no hope for you,

if you're bad to the very bone,

come in, I suppose, for an hour or two,

or as long as you're out on loan.

11.

This is my midwinter suit.

I sue for the right to stroke your pussy.

You be the judge, the entire court.

I courted conventionally, Your Worship, but it was no use.

You thought me a thief, a rogue and a scoundrel.

So now I stand before you, an upright member

of this community of inhibited pricks,

and represent myself straightly.

Your Honor, I will make your pussy melt,

despite the weather, with kindness.

I will never be rough with it during preliminaries

but will pat it's fur until it purrs Gimmie wetly.

I have never, Your Worship, been scratched on the face.

My back is raked but you will understand.

I will not say any bad words to your cat,

even when poling it for all I’m worth.

I am not a vulgar or indecent man,

and would not keep it out if I heard it crying.

It seems to me, you should be as fair.

Your pussy, Your Honor, would be in good hands.

I rest my case optimistically.

12.

Would you do something fairly grotesque for me?

I think if you ate a gristly sandwich

covered in gravy and let the grease

run down your chin as you guzzled wine

from a 2-liter bottle, and wiped your hands

on the front of your shirt, and belched,

and put a pipe in your teeth,

and lit it with fire from a dripping candle,

and swung both heels up onto the table,

while rocking back on two legs of your chair

in a period of unrestrained expression,

I'd see you as less than an angel of love.

And if it didn't work, perhaps I could kneel

and tongue the remaining drops from your wrist.

13.

In the orphanage of my love for you are parents,

sometimes mine, sometimes yours, usually generous and fair,

allowing hope, perhaps, the end of an institution,

or beginning, the eagerness to be your son,

a two-year-old times ten, upright as a mother would have him,

or the gentle wish to be your father, protector,

giving you everything to let me adore you.

And there are a thousand urchins in my orphanage,

screaming for your attention: Visit us you pretty bitch!

We want to pull your hair, show you the unjustified roots

of innocence! We want to uncover you, hold you,

see whether you have any tears, a sister laid,

roughly loved by the thousand wretched facets of us! Accept!

we are not evil, only children, dirty ones in need of you,

and without your ability to remain shut-up, dry-eyed.

14.

Fantasy: She had kept him out for years, wandering

in ever tighter circles around her.

At first, he wasn't sure he wanted.

He asked carefully and she said no.

Then he wanted, but so badly he was afraid to ask.

He did. She said no.

He was oddly relieved, gave her up, swore her off;

yet again came back, having to start in a wider circle.

As he weakened, she let him closer, trotting him harder

on the invisible string, until he was under control.

When he was nearly an infant, needing her without sense,

she undressed his mind, studied his will. It was without force:

a child's touch, a child's gaze, the entire hardness of his being

concentrated in one thing, and she led him by that

to where she taught paroxysms.

The next time was easier: she let him determine their form.

He stood her on her knees and elbows, a study in female heat.

At leisure, he mounted, stroked her belly and breasts,

brushed back her hair and kissed her mouth;

and when she had a need exceeding his own,

rode her rudely for sport, enjoying her

meaningless, animal yips and grunts.

15.

Love is an unsutured suffering

we work at, as upon a last,

the door of flesh being held ajar

by the awl of lust, the mind aghast.

Fully healed, it wouldn't be love,

but a scar, thick and insentient,

an intellectual `there-you-are,'

the self sealed, smug and sapient.

16.

Is this a fault of woman, the point of man to find?

A midline fracture that would have him cleave with his wedge?

Ruin: the bearded, vertical smile, jawless, noseless, eyeless

and unattractive, mute and unable to bite.

There lies part of its charm, passivity gobbling everything,

like the future, ultimately satisfied in being made.

It is not Nature that abhors this vacuum, but man,

taken in by it and expelled, always out of bounds,

in a vortex that bends and perverts by being greater,

a bane of ordered love and good, constructive thought.

Here is a bulwark of obscenity, one terrible aim

of thwarted intelligence, the animal pit of our eternity,

and yet, of course, the source of everything.

Even this poem is on its lips, wanting both

to be swallowed and given birth.

17.

Sleeplessly my night mind vexes

me in the chains of my wife's breathing.

Do women slumber so gladly monogamous?

Is being male innately false?

You, I think, you.

What exactly do I think?

That you don't breathe?

That you are the key, no, the lock, to happiness?

There are no ideas, only pictures.

I imagine you, July-naked and within my reach,

as close as the air is close tonight,

something I live in, breed with. Mine.

The quest lately is to exist half-sane.

I am drowning in suppressed passion,

a guest so strange in my parents’ house

as to wonder how it is I am here—

in my sister's old bedroom, by my wife's side,

outside myself but unwilling to leave

anyone, anything, thinking of you

until I am convinced: I need two wives.

18.

How do I love you? Awful.

And worse on other days--like a torturer and victim confused,

looking for one another in my racked brain,

stretching each other thin, forever refusing to kill or die,

taking it up again after exhaustion,

soiling the sheets of my cortex to no purpose.

And I love you not only madly, but seemingly sanely,

like a convention of dons, indefatigable with speeches,

weary, dreary and oblique, so sick of puns and numb in the ass,

the only incentive to sit there and breathe

is another ridiculous chance to talk.

I love you like the dribble and rain of basketballs

from a dozen hot-shot players warming up

on the tireless netted hole, unsatisfied because nothing counts,

banging about the unguarded hoop in a boring scoring

of imagination, a pointless and abundant spilling forth.

I love you like the racket of a jack-hammer,

the chance of unified world religion and good governance,

starving fleas on the corpse of a cat.

I love you like a stuck record,

like the bitter farce of bad theater,

all the beauty gone into menopause,

and a desert that might have been irrigated.

I love you like the pure senselessness of these poems.

The Precipitation Was Bouncing

Hail to Peter, it seemed to say:

you dumb little mute and stunted twerp,

you orphan of intellectual thought,

aging fledgling of lust overdone,

false father of feelings

oddly acted on.

You lack! You lack love and industry;

are a wandering, blubbering fool for passion,

a fountain of coming upon coming, goat,

stinking, reveling, self-replenishing,

prideless joker on self and humanity!

You hate everyone in this!

The sleet storm continued.

Peter's ears were back,

their pink centers in.

Ice pellets in the naked trees