I've heard
they've been known
to enjoy it, enjoy it
like a brisk walk through fog
or biting through the skin of a ripe
apricot – but
haven't you found
an odd sort of dis--
aster in the body's strange dis--
association
like it is not she
who is fucking -- it is
something else, something
guttural and primitive that she
allows
inside her and then
disbands
like loud houseguests
who lent her an interesting evening but
made a terrible mess,
the entire time
kept cautiously at arm's length,
but nonetheless
she did enjoy them, enjoyed
their crude antics with a cold, de-
tached smile peaking over
hard spectacles
So,
To a Poet:
What is Sex-
uality?
Is it Sensuality?
Du-
ality?
Solipsistic brutality?
A separation of skin
stretched over the soul
within?
See, he bounces when he walks
and she wants him
to walk through her like fog, bouncing
while she
watches
fully paused,
their bodies
fresh
like glistening apricots
Does he realize
he is creating words in her
womb when she releases herself
to that sloppy houseguest
and sips on tea
somewhere else, quietly,
softly?
and isn't that funny, Poets?
the self's betrayal/revolution
that sharp dis-sent from their own skin
that skittish dis-taste for sweaty dramatics
that seething dis-pleasure from the body's heart-
felt dis-approval
and that frugal dis-
ass-
Ohhh-
she-
ate-
shun
when they finally become One
because Poets, well -
They think
the soul speaks above the rest but
don't you laugh when they
scream the loudest?