CANTOS III
October is the coolest month,
a fitting time for some love stunt.
It’s not haywire, it’s Haymarket!
“High-heels are parties’ straightjacket,
why don’t you take them off in my
room, down the hall.” She’s tongue-tied.
The roommate’s dim, and so’s the lights.
The Jesus neckless out of sight.
He was not sold by charm or wit,
her name was no prerequisite
to keep the pace tonight. The act
turns boys to men, and lights pinched black
From sweating leisure comes such pleasure.
Like vulgar Ceaser’s ‘seiser,
Chad thought, “Vidi vici veni
She’s drank the beers and skipped martinis.”
There’s unity in youthful bliss,
she’s spun supine, like Uranus.
“I’m burning up, straight through the ice,
my meager futon will suffice.
She morphs as worthy as Ovid:
Sweet Sydney’s now a vicious Syd!”
What lacked around her waist, instead,
Found its asylum in her head:
“You look just like a million bucks,
Strong-armed and fit like Sioux.”
A wedding night, but sans the banns!
A banned delight, like Kugerrands!
I think an ode for bod’ly lust,
I’m leery to sing, but now I must,
or better yet, I swing ballet
for this gay girl that leads me ‘stray.
What starts so clean upon our feet
soon finds itself in sheathed retreat.
(Who knew that now a plastic coat
can stop life faster than a moat?
The ‘noxious artist dons a smock,
In case she has Pandora’s Pox.)
“I sing her body’s eclectic
and wond’rous blessings! Quick to pick
her up, maintaining grasp,” he quipped,
“Embrace is such a perfect fit;
our clothing just gets in the way.”
She stopped, and much to Chad’s dismay,
dispersed her digestion on his knees
This wasn’t quite the night cap that
He had in mind. “Oh, Gott ist tot!”
He cursed as his excitement burst
His evening plans deserved a Hearst.
Hence past that night, her number died
a tragic death. What caught his eye
was not in texts or rolodex,
but twisted with his views on sex.
In months to pass, the strangest things
caused him to droll: sex-Pavlov springs.
There’s certain shapes and molds of plastic
that flame the fires of fierce fetish.
When thoughts for furniture weren’t wholesome,
his body found a brand-new fulcrum.
One night his better judgment found
a better thing to do. He crowned
the animal that wants its fill.
“I have an hour or so until
the roommate Drew comes, I’m alone,”
he soon inflected his dry tone.
There came a song within the room
That made Chad’s heart begin to swoon,
a gentle lull of popping fuzz
held him entangled. The crux
of sex attraction ‘came apparent
the TV stopped. It was clairvoyant.
Auroras grew around the screen.
The television set looked like
it wore a coat of velvet. The sight
made Chad to think to close the door;
he felt an impulse from his core,
titillating, osculating
loins quickly took to grating
upon the plastic, wood on plastic.
No questions for the enigmatic
engage of love with this TV,
“Was that the twisting of a key?”
The session ended much too short
to gain full-blooded love support.
Chad leapt into the couch askew,
emerging from the door, came Drew.
“Was something going on?” he said.
The tension knotted the velvet threads
that Chad had once embraced with care,
conceived ‘round the antenna-pair.
“Now, were you hugging my TV?”
(I looked so cur’ous, carnally?
thought Chad, the key’s quick dance within
the hole to end my righteous sin
was not enough of a good warning
of the interrogation coming.)
“I was just shagging your TV.”
Chad meant to say that he was ‘shaking,’
but Drew’s so shaken, the mistake’s not mistaken.
A Freudian slip! a raw faux pas
to deconstruct like Derrida,
but spewed dear Drew, himself amiss,
“Just what is up with your bullspit?”
Drew actually did use those words,
a pious guy, refused to curse,
but in his mind, “bullspit” made sense,
“It’s bulls’ own uvula lubricants!”
(I’d love to hear his explanation
How “Cluck you!” is a defamation.)
CANTOS IV
Chad found himself a few weeks out,
coffee-housing since the bout
with Drew and shattered trust. He thrust
his paper up and coldly cussed
when business cards slid on the table.
“I tell you now, the curse is fatal.”
The card said. There a man stood plain
and left. Chad’s reason died; he sprang
up, stepping toward the tattered tweed,
behind the store, his tight-lips cleaved:
“I know your name, you’re wond’ring mine.”
(assumption not made out of line.)
“Young lad Chad, I’m sad to say,
your dying comes in numbered days.”
The man talked slow with no accent
that Chad had known or knew exist.
“Who are you? What has brought you here?”
“I’m sorry, Chad, I can’t be clear.
Just take the words this post has spun,
the sand runs fast for fallen ones.”
Chad’s palm a platform for a reader,
A thin-spined, seraphim-cover,
a dim squint just to read the font,
when Chad looked up, the man was gone.
Later, dorm-home alone he trod
the thinkers’ fore-aft pace. “Was God’s
philanthropy this gift? Did he
slip me this cryptic text to read?”
With night in covers, skin full-showered,
The book ajar and his place cowered
“Six months of pain without escape,
and then you form in stone-cast shape.
The sin devours flesh into rock,
and coitus is the way to stop
the painful transformation fate
into the Wife of Lot. Translate
the curse unto the other,
the first one dies a mercy’s smother.
You wither quick in broken sand,
a shame before the Son of Man.
The other’s now begot the spell
to freeze within a rocky Hell.
Thus, as your soul breaks down to dust
the earthen things shall draw your lust.
Come selfish sex, or noble restrain
you must accept your wretched fate
as Golem, the damned man of stone
a lost soul thrust beyond atone.
What first drove him to porc’lain skin
now drew him close porc’lain rims.
Just from my mad, erratic tryst,
I’m turned on by my own light switch!
The smothering shakes of sliding lips,
fixed –ridge, clean teeth now tightly bit.
Few truths can wring more solemn
than wretched life rung as a golem.
He thought of all the children’s names.
He thought of all the children’s games.
He thought of life not spent alone.
He thought of all that he had grown
accustom thinking things came past this.
Life knows no consolation gifts!
“Perhaps the Lord, in all His wisdom,
had blessed a batch of bacterium
That molded, split and folded, bowled,
stripped, rolled by God’s unseen control,
Into a brew which brains thus grew.
By now, in our primord’l coup,
subdued the world and has His laugh.
If I to die, I have some thoughts
to entertain.” He said and scoffed.
“Forget you, junkies and crack-heads,
panhandlers, get a job instead.
You politicians, keen for war,
play any trick, you corporate whores.
Rednecks, bigots, and narrow minds,
Mein Kampf is quick to read, you’ll find.
Self-righteous, whiney radicals,
You have no clue. But most of all,
To all the folks who don’t know pain
but look for problems they can claim!
Self-help speakers with Talk-show grins,
Damn you, “victims” and charlatans!
You “know” the secrets for life’s passion,
(Counting money in your mansion?)
Where’s one person you’ve changed in life?
I see a bored, mislead housewife.
From tops of charts, to back-bin sales,
Runs your reserves when hope-springs fail!
The money would come faster should
you just push pills. Let me be understood,
suburban existentialists,
get a new job and purse your lips!”
Anger is sadness with a flame
that scalds bleak Chad’s hope-filled remains.
‘Tis this, a dangerous concoction:
What starts as hate soon steams to passion.
Imagination gained its grip
to rip him from his rocky crypt.
He sat and stared up at the wall
until he saw it not at all.
Decisions beckon, filled with spite
The visions thicken in full sight:
A girl kneads his rocked chest
and moans about how she is blessed
to love a man as strong as rock
(although not quite as she had thought.)
He’d smile, since he’d corrupt this kid
and rid the curse and run. How blessed
to think the pain would wein. To dare
caress waxed legs and flaxen hair.
“I am the hedonist’s head cleric,
whose specific quests are esoteric.
I come to claim your flaws in flesh,
to find perfection and heav’nly rest.
now join me in this full release
we are now one, and I the beast!
The sweet song rings, oh sing nymph noise!
Come roll your legs like your lymphoids!”
And so they’d lie, proud what they’ve done,
His curse is over, he’s begun.
He’d laugh as fingertips recede
as all his figure turns to bleed
into a pile of Sahara scrap.
The girl caught in the sand trap.
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