The Cold Fish

Left to his own devices, the cold fish
Makes no pretence that he feels the effect
Of others' suffering. He is stiff-necked
About such things as empathy, a dish
(He offers) best served cold. It is his wish
That people, who might well find themselves wrecked
On shoals of great emotions, form a sect
To slam doors on. He isn't ticklish.

Nor is the cold fish ever truly cold:
He feels nothing at all, at least most days.
There were some thoughts once, in a summer's haze,
Of sweet affection's triumph. That got old,
And now intimacy is bought and sold
With paint, and sequins, bright lights, and green baize.

I Dream of You

When I’m awake, I dream of you, your lips
Almost caressing mine, my hand in yours.
A love like ours, something the world ignores
Out of mere envy, tends our souls and grips
Like iron bars, binding our hearts and hips.
My thoughts of you are like opening doors
To greet a brand new morning. Sunlight pours
From the horizon to my fingertips.

My body keens for yours when we’re apart,
Asserting its own claims, a churning brew
Of fear, devotion, and a residue,
Always a residue of chance, of art,
Of anguish, simmering inside my heart.
When I’m asleep, I dream only of you.

Historic Love

Medusa learned about serpents from me,
And my rock-hard body appealed to Venus.
Minerva’s wisdom was my ecstasy,
And Pandar praised my proud prehensile penis.
My next great love affair was Joan of Arc’s
Rotund assistant, in the vineyard weeds.
Exchanging fluids with Mrs. Karl Marx
Was done according to each other’s needs.
When Mary Queen of Scots called me a fairy
I showed her magic, turning her quite loose,
Just like her sweetest cousin Bloody Mary,
Who grinned, and spiced up my tomato juice.
The greatest love of all was Catherine the Great’s:
She taught me how to kiss on roller skates.

Art Stings

Art stings sometimes. Sometimes we stare at art
And can’t pretend to like it, though we try,
We pray, we wander mentally, we pry
Truth from its jaws, and forcing things apart
Becomes the motive centre of our heart.
What did I mean by that? One beady eye
Stares, bleak and cloudy, unamused but wry,
At this creation, vicious from the start.

If art is like a hornet, is its sting
An underused defence? Do we pull thorns
Too easily from roses, saw off horns
From buffaloes, force silent crows to sing,
Expunge regret with green pills? Whispering,
Art should undo the world that it adorns.