it was sunday and there was a woman
donít want to write a poem, but the poem wonít write me.
& I donít want to make love any more, just want to fuck.
you donít have to pretend when you fuck.
she said Ďdonít have to love me, just love to fuck me.í
see, right there, I knew she was lying.
she gets angry when I spill her secrets, but if women didnít
tell me things, Iíd have nothing to write.
laid my dirty romance on a highland girl just to soothe the scratches
on her tits, but she wonít take up with a man like me, even though
we are artful & donít have to use explicit terms like cock & cunt
when we compose erotica. itís all there in our recherchť verses,
anyone with a dime store libido can figure it out.
love does its common deed on a woman & she must hide in the
shadows of a broken heart. I tell her we are poets, that is where we
write & that is how we write. if she tells me to lay a wreath on the
grave of her darkness I will already have forgotten it.
they come through the walls at me, the dames & the dolls & the
blue angels, & maybe I loved them or thought I did. if I extort those
lurid affairs in my preambles of sorrow, it doesnít matter. the lonely
legion who read me know what I am.
I could be a lot of things, vile & dirty & bad things †Ė
but I could never be a poemÖ