“You know these new novels make me tired. My God! Everywhere I go some silly girl asks me if I’ve read ‘This Side of Paradise.’ Are our girls really like that? If it’s true to life, which I don’t believe, the next generation is going to the dogs. I’m sick of all this shoddy realism.”
One for Dick Caramel
My contemporaries suggested
that she torture the madness out of me
give me a peek at her upon undress
then tearfully subside to meek distress
shake her head and recount past failures of love
make artificial lornness of her quim
pretend that I was a debased beast with eager fingers
too quick for a demure De Sade.
She’d quiver to pretend a hesitation,
while I was left with a marveled fascination
of how she could lay upon the bed
dutifully nude, a wetted blossom between her hips,
and yet refrain as though the symphony was yet unwritten
as though the Kapellmeister forgot his magical baton
like a lubricated Berlioz removing damnation from the title.
She knew I wanted her
there with no averseness
a crazed juggler of perversions
that she carefully crafted to personify iniquity
while I mildly saw myself as an illiterate Aquinas
paranoid that they’ll start burning writers again
bare along with their thoughts and clothing words
braying gleefully to find the hooves underneath their soles.
So while she was nude and I was merely tattered
a sway of mood finally eased her into crescent
she chanted while I swallowed her humid breath
and we had a new ceremony to celebrate
like children without a god.
She disrobed from her failed intent
gave in to me
as was customary for the reckless muse
and was, in no lost irony,
the one that was consumed.