| Some Poems by Louie Crew Misdirections I still want to say about us the bit that can't be said. Surely domestic quarrels can't quite define us yet? I dream our world brimmed with wonder, see only catshit in our bed. The words I used--wondrous, spirit, ineffable, mysterious--now, like pearls discovered false, around my bone cage hurl accusations. Lover's doom I call it. Weary, walking one comes at end of day to see the destination's back some way along the road; yet one returning there discovers that arrival was the air she'd walked inside, the meadows, brooks and fields he'd hurried through in great expectation. Driving to Grandmother's Funeral These adult noises, Mother, I first heard wombed inside you. The veined red marriage bed in a corner of my dream pulsates warmth you taught me to enjoy. The smiles a cabbie draws, or a lover woos from my lips, were your smiles when you spooned my porridge. Grandmother is dead. Up early, we drive to her funeral down the back of this long mountain. You have never seen the sun rise, you tell me. I pull to the shoulder just before the red tongue rims the east. The silence quakes. We watch, blood-bound. Quantification "These physiologically recordable levels of orgasmic intensity never must be presumed arbitrarily to be a full or consistent measure of the subjective pleasure derived from individual orgasmic attainment." --Masters and Johnson, Human Sexual Response I'm here above you, waiting, calculat- ing your slow undulations til I lose the pleasure of my own, and making mat- ing measure my manhood in terms of those climaxes you receive, my cold sperm mechanically spent to bring you joy. How can you really wonder why I squirm to get away to piss as soon as coy game is done? why I hate you and this sad, dead, intellectual fuck? Can you not touch me too? Have I no ego to be fed? J'accuse! You surely don't love me very much! Mommy, mommy, give back the pretty toy some mean girl's stolen from your little boy. A Shaking Spear My lover's buns are nothing like a God's. Plate glass is far more rippled than his chest. His six-inch fuse becomes his only rod. With no cologne but rankest funk he's blessed. I have seen glistening men, hirsute or smooth, but no alluring luster's in his face. And I've known even yokels less uncouth clutching their men in graceless long embrace. I like to hear my lover's tuneful shower, but any glories there are merely myths, for though his songs indeed my spunk empower, the truth is that he all too often lithps. And yet I swear my man's to me more real than hunky clones who, unrehearsed, can't feel. Bright & Early The crab having waxed a black dot to one gray pube, elevates; stretches; e n s c u t t l h The s.e t sleeper only scratche s. |
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