You can’t call the guy an artist, he’s too fucked up.
You better not call him fucked up either.
There are limits to a wild man’s patience,
especially since he sleeps with a wild woman,
who tries his patience only in the way he talks
to her, not the way he holds her inside
his arms, or where he drives then rides his tongue.
She says he feels awfully big down there
before she puts him in her mouth, soixante neuf.
He always wanted to learn how to paint,
but poor boys settle for writing poems,
you need only a pencil and paper,
courage to defeat the rise of euphemisms,
how he was taught in the old days
to find the right word to say what you mean.
If he’s fucked up, he may as well say so.
She says, Fuck me, and he does. She loves him.
She’s had plenty of chances for comparison.
He’s not talking about his. He’s the one writing.
He’s no artist. He plays too much. He’s never done.
(25 May 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander