THE BEAST
And
now who’s going to drool at your beauty?
Who’s
going to bark through the night?
Who’s
going to bury
his
bone for you today?
and
howl for your exclusive delight?
My head has become a slow white dove –
no match, I’m afraid,
for the swiftsweet addersss of your fingerssss.
Just a flikflik of the tongue,
one whiplash embrace –
and
already
the rich delicious poison
invades my heart.
And
now who’s going to drool at your beauty?
Who’s
going to bark through the night?
Who’s
going to bury his bone for you today?
and
howl for your exclusive delight?
Imagine our bodies in Braille,
finger tongues perusing,
teasing out nuances,
weighing every significance.
teasing out nuances,
weighing every significance.
We turn over
sheet after
sheet.
Each climax
foreshadowed,
we read
ourselves to sleep.
And
now
who’s
going to drool at your beauty?
Who’s
going to bark
through
the night?
Who’s
going to bury
his
bone for you today? and howl for your exclusive delight?
I
love your body’s several smiles
as
I press my name on all your mouths.
I
love the way your body smiles
in
some of your most surprising places.
I
love the several smiles your body hides.
I
love the hidden ways your body smiles for me.
The
Easter Egg Hunt of your passion.
And now who’s going
to drool at your beauty?
And now who’s going
to drool at your beauty?
Who’s
going
to
bark through the night?
Who’s
going
to
bury
his
bone for you today?
and
howl
for
your exclusive delight?
No
music’s only one finger on one string.
The
ocean wants a moon to make a tide.
Left
foot needs right to create a stride.
And
flight requires flow and wing.
It
all makes a kind of bawdy sense:
Selfish
soliloquy, no audience.
And
now who’s
going
to drool at your beauty? Who’s
going
to bark through the night? Who’s
going
to bury his bone for you today?
who
howl for your exclusive delight?
sticky
nights
with a
peppermintcheeked wonderchild
gumdrop
breasts and licorice thighs
and acres of
sugar cube smile
(even sweets
will turn sour
if left for
overnight;
too many
lonely long hours
between the passion and delight)
between the passion and delight)
And
now who’s going to drool at your beauty?
Who’s
going to bark through the night?
Who’s
going to bury
his
bone for you today?
and howl for your exclusive delight?
I’ve had my wine.
my kiss and my cock,
my garden and my trial.
I’ve got my thorns,
my thief and my hill,
my boulder and my style.
Where are my ring,
my fief and my rod,
my halo and my choir?
-- Duane Vorhees
------------------------------
------------------------------
HER NAME IS JENNY AND MANY A MORN HAS WORN HER FACE
:daybreaks are harlots all scarlet and huge with
rouge and paste.
:some skies all rosy with hosiery (her limbs so
prim, so chaste!).
:some days hemorrhage like courage at our
battleplace.
:other sunrises are sizes too small -- whole yards
of lace:
silk towns are pretty, but cities of silk go wilt
and waste.
(So like my Jenny: her any is much; her touch,
embrace.)
(There is no middle. A little with her will work
long ways.)
:brown coffee mornings come pouring right up from
cup to taste.
:all these sunrisings (dawn-icings) -- like thieves,
they leave no trace.
(So unlike Jenny;.
so many a morn has worn her face, so many evenings.
Her leaving goes dim with flimsy haste.)
