Saturday, April 25, 2015

The Beast


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.
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?
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)

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.)

4 comments:

  1. Amour glissant

    Ma tete devenue un lent pigeon blanc --
    aucune ressenblance, j'ai peur,
    pour vos doigts agilesss comme le ssserpent.
    Juste un claquement de la langue,
    un embrassement de coup de fouet --

    et
    deja
    le poison delicieux et riche
    envahit mon coeur.

    --tr. Alina Dominica & Dorin Popa

    ReplyDelete
  2. Examinant seulement?

    Imaginez nos corps dans le format Braille:
    des doigts comme des langues lisant attentivement
    taquinant les nuances
    pesant chaque signification.
    Nous rendons
    feuille apres feuille.
    Chaque appgee presage
    nous nous lisons pour dormir.

    --tr. Alina Duminica & Dorin Popa

    ReplyDelete
  3. Les reves d'un diabetique sur le sexe

    des nuits collantes
    avec un enfant prodige au minois a la menthe
    des tetons elastiques, semblables aux bonbons et des cuisses de reglisse
    et les acres sourires sucres
    (meme des bonbons tourneront aigres
    si la nuit part soudain;
    trop de longues heures solitares
    entre la passion et le plaisir)

    --tr. Alina Duminica & Dorin Popa

    ReplyDelete
  4. Tout fils de l'homme

    J'avais eu mon vin,
    mon baiser et mon coq,
    mon jardin et mon epreuve.

    J'avais obtenu mes epines,
    mon voleur et ma colline,
    mon rocher et mon modele.

    Ou sont ma boucle,
    mon fief et ma tige,
    mon halo et ma choeur?

    --tr. Alina Duminica et Dorin Popa

    ReplyDelete

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