I Kissed You Once

I kissed you once. It was on New Year’s Eve,
Before midnight. Once midnight finally came
You found yourself addressing an old flame
With much more than enough verve to conceive.
It did occur to me I ought to leave,
But I had almost nothing to my name
And I enjoyed the bubbly, to my shame,
So I allowed myself a brief reprieve.

I wasn’t really tipsy, around two,
When you informed me stoutly you were Mab,
Queen of the Fairies. “Call a taxicab,”
I answered. “I’m tired, and I’m done with you.”
Somebody else gave you a ride. Make do;
I’ve disengaged now, and pulled off the scab.

She Wears the Trousers

She wears the trousers, so I wear a dress:
So silky on my thighs, swivelling free,
Its hem not very far above the knee
But high enough so that she feels the stress
When I forget myself and worry less
Than I ought to about my modesty,
Sitting, my legs apart, too readily
Displaying all my — who would I impress?

But now she’s put on trousers, so my crotch
May be the only power I’ve got left,
My one last place of clear sexual heft,
So yes, I’m hoping that the girls will watch.
I’ll sigh and pour myself a dram of Scotch,
And pray she doesn’t leave my heart bereft.

Never Doubt My Weakness

Insist that I’ve been wasting time, and space,
And never doubt my weakness. I’ve been sitting
With my huge head aching, minding my knitting,
My hands securely covering my face.
As an exemplar of the human race
I hit the low spots, hovering and spitting
In the air. Sure, I am thinking of quitting,
But not to choose some fine and private place.

I’m weak but not an idiot, uncouth
But not a licker of behinds, unjust
But not a chimney sweeper come to dust,
Devoted wholly since my misspent youth
To eating worms: no undue weight on truth,
No chance at love, no brains, no fear, no trust.

Excess of Corn

“Corn is the food of love, hard to resist,”
Begins the botanist. “Please note the genus.
If you should take some ears of corn to Venice
Remind yourself that there may be a twist:
Watch the canals for skulls, and shake your fist
At brainless fate. Remember poor St. Dennis
Who lost his head, ignoring the cruel menace
Of Roman goons who never had been kissed.”

“Corn is a tasty monocotyledon,”
He goes on, darkly. “Learning Botany
Will aid your love lives. I have family
In Uppsala, a holy place in Sweden,
Where Carl Linnaeus’s Garden of Eden
Ensures that every Swedish girl loves me.”

Whom I Adore

Her lips are razor thin, her smile is nasty,
Her attitude is itself cruelty,
Her skin is flaky like a Cornish pasty,
But her nails are everything to me.
She swears exactly like a drunken sailor,
Her greasy hair lies both uncombed and flat,
She’s been at odds with dressmaker and tailor
All through the last six years. Yes, she’s like that.
My arms and back are raw, and badly scarred,
Her bowlegs cry her personality,
She never lets me kiss her — soft or hard —
But I’m safe in my unreality.
Her eyes won’t level, her grip is terrible,
And losing her would be unbearable.

Geese, Villain

Don't speak to me about the fields of flowers
In the noonday sun, the daffodils
(A host!), the bluebirds and the whippoorwills,
The tall wheat grass, the prairie dog that cowers
In its little home, the April showers
And the summer solstice. The air fills
With natural sounds and sights, the peace that stills
Our busy hearts, Great Birnam Wood that towers —

Lord! I am sick of all this nonsense verse
Lamenting that our old ways have now passed,
The endless wittering as cracked and vast
As all outdoors. I say there’s nothing worse
Than hopes of our redemption from the curse
Of civilized places (hopes built to last).

A Gangster’s Kiss

Have we acknowledged that the land we’re on
Was an indigenous stronghold, a site
Where someone was established, had the right
To call it home — to welcome each new dawn
With joyful prayers and local customs, drawn
From centuries of care — seized by the might
Of guns, disease, indifference, and spite,
No more concern for them than a brief yawn?

When I hear these bromides, my tongue goes slack,
And I can’t speak. Is it mere artifice,
Is it the truth, is it a gangster’s kiss?
So tell me now: are we giving it back,
Or mouthing empty phrases? There’s a track
Of bread crumbs from that lonely place to this.

More Unoriginal Rhymes

No one has made more unoriginal rhymes:
“When hot for certainties — or maybe hotter —
Who is the Pot, then, pray, and who the Potter?
Elect a criminal, you expect crimes,
Dead trees, emblems of deeds done in their climes
(Myrtles, cypress), the castle of the otter,
Glass beads better than any man’s fair daughter —
The best of times? It was the worst of times.

Life more than meat, and body more than raiment?
Sure, dats de charge. Write it in de blotter
And welcome back to you, sir, Mistah Kotter
(He dead). All these remarks are underlayment
From debtor Peter to ensure Paul’s payment”
He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water.

What Others Have Written

Not temperate, a tempest, the rough wind
That shakes the darling buds of May, no plum
Out of the tree of life, tongue of the dumb
Not singing, dreams beneath the tamarind
Now ended, summer buggered, bagged, and binned,
You are the bottom of the barrel, come
To play the fife and slowly bang the drum,
Commending yellow stockings. We have sinned,

So bless me now, with your fierce tears, I pray —
Or curse me with bell, book, and candle. Bless
Us every one, please, for we did not guess
That love would be so hard to master, grey
Would be our colour. I ask, What’d I say?
Tell me. I will not leave you comfortless.

The Conscientious Lover

I was a conscientious lover once.
Now I have ceased to care for anything
But my own pleasure. Then I was the dunce,
But now I suit myself, I am the king
Of constant gladness in my very bones,
Ignoring the almost constant complaints,
The whispered whines, the irritated groans
By endless aggravated women, saints
In their own minds because they cherished me,
Or so they say, but it’s a specious claim;
I cherished them, pleased them religiously,
And none of them remembers my real name.
They say, “Go down on me again, Ray-Ray,”
But I say, “Wash yourself, girl,” and walk away.

On April 22

I’m tired of all this rubbish. What’s this “Earth Day”?
There isn’t any celebration here
Commemorating V. I. Lenin’s birthday,
No Bolsheviks to raise a mighty cheer,
Nor planetary activists enthralled
By geothermal-powered batteries.
I’m overwhelmed again by — what’s it called? —
The Stupid, an insipid congeries.
Bituminous coal keeps me warm at night,
The air conditioning stays on all day,
Gas-powered rockets make a lovely sight,
And we don’t give a goddamn anyway.
You lunkheads think this is a new beginning?
Wake up, you imbeciles: darkness is winning!

Well Adjusted

I watch a happy father standing proudly
While his too-well-adjusted three-year-old
Announces, “Bottom, bottom, bottom!” loudly,
Which seems to leave a few spectators cold
But I’m O.K. with it, thinking that kids
Should learn to curse more freely than they do.
Too many grown-ups freeze, or flip their lids
And swoon, gasping when they at last come to,
Pretending that they’ve never heard before
Such crude, distressing language in their lives.
So I say, “Bottom!” to them, three times more.
Bring on the drama, cry, pull out your knives,
And lie about how children used to be
When you were children. Clearly not like me.

What’s Left

Do you think I’m just flapping my gums?
I’m grateful for the things that I got right.
Old mistakes sometimes keep us up all night,
But I did do some good; forgiveness comes,
In stages and in moments. Beat the drums,
Announce it to the world: nothing’s all white,
Or all black either, not my appetite
Or your successes, neither plunder nor plums.

Your failures and my needs won’t die alone:
What’s left is what was really in your heart,
The grins and glowers tearing you apart
And pulling you together, shocked, wind-blown,
Silent, or muttering in a monotone.
I helped, some days. It’s love only, not art.

You Will Remember This

You will remember this. Try to forget,
Work on your lucid dreaming for a year,
Maybe a decade, discard senseless fear,
Engage with spirits, haunt yourself and fret,
Consult the stars, pretend we never met,
Nothing will change; that much at least is clear.
You’re hoping, but no light is waiting here
For you or anyone. Not now. Not yet.

As for myself, I never could recall
The past, or any of those memories
You can’t expunge. You know the names of trees;
I barely know my own name. I’m in thrall
To dancing lights, shadows, the panther’s call,
And wakefulness. Night is a time of ease.

Chaff

One day I swallowed ragweed, for a laugh,
A wheeze, a joke, my method of romance,
But lovely Letty led me such a dance
That I gave up. It was a reckless gaffe,
And she warned me my jokes were nonsense — chaff,
An empty bluff on which she looked askance.
I said, “My soul is an open expanse,”
And she replied, “I’ve dumped your photograph.”

She pointed to a thistle and a shrub
Where it had caught, and, muttering my name
Like cursing, to reiterate her claim,
She meanly threatened me with a large club.
She huffed, “Your picture does you justice, Bub.”
I asked, “Did you also throw out the frame?”