If dreams were my fingers
and prayers dances come true,
on falling meadows I would linger
sleeping with you.
And life were a true thing,
which it is (but not soon)
I would give up my manhood
to relearn it from you.
If wind be my voice
with a tongue green as leaves,
I’d speak you no noise
harsher than breeze.
And thoughts were an oak tree,
not intellectual—but were dark—
words curl like black branches,
kisses thicken like bark.
Oneness is found in the East
Wonder’s at home in the West
but Faith resides in a place of peace
between a woman’s breasts.
The Queen’s Lace puts a heavy head
up. I put a light.
The Clover’s frock is red tonight
beneath moon’s parasol.
I’m liable to die.
Even the flowers cannot be erased
from the backstop of time.
Even grace
can’t save the lonely daisy
of Human life that has lost its stem.
The wind can be stopped
by a factory at work.
The life
of every worker can be stopped
when the flower’s plucked.
The flower’s been plucked.
Thought never made a man be a man
Machines it has made on every hand.
Thought-machine nabs a woman, woos her by soft
Cooing rhythm of the electric hum of his cogs;
Then thought-woman, like an earthworm, swoons, makeup gone smuck,
Uncovers her hairless legs, straddles machine, and they fuck
By the light of the silvery moon
In Ju—Ju—Ju—June.
Sit then, we shall make a nest
and I shall clutch you, my lips impress
a dark rose on your breast.
I will put it for a test
of this encounter as your guest.
There then, and let me plant
another here, and here beneath your pants
let loose another in the forest: we’ll let him tramp
around for a woodless valley. Let him find the camp
I will make tonight—but first must go out the lamp.
No lie back again—don’t stir.
It’s now too dark and—brrr!
it’s cold! But don’t act so uncomfortable. I’ll cover
you warmer than the warmest fur.
Me or blanket—which would you prefer?
Go ahead then, hesitate.
Let that silly mind of yours step in to legislate,
like some old spinster, the kind of love you make.
Go ahead, let it tell you wait
until it’s worked out some ideal, romantic way to mate.
Why do you huddle on the bed
squeezing double knees to the breasts
like that; why fold arms around your naked head,
throwing such a volley of tears, and nothing said?
I’m not impressed.
Look at me.
Lift up that naked face—don’t you see
you must be sensible. This isn’t fantasy.
And it’s no game; now will you please
take down those knees?
So cry at me. You say it’s sex
I’m after. You think I’m out to flex
my muscle in your female factory; your text
is that you’re the big production, me just the annex.
I’m the one that’s vexed.
I took you for a woman. I thought
you saw me as a man. In moon we walked
this night to your apartment, now at the bed you balk.
It tires me, this talk—
now, feel it! my erection’s hard as rock!
No, no, don’t try to slip around
me to the door. Sit down!
You stay there on the ground.
I won’t be made a clown
even if I have to hold you down.
Since you won’t get on the bed
we’ll do it here. I’m fed
up with your resistance! See, you make me whip your head
against the floor, and now the wood is red;
and now you’re still.
I’ll have my way before you’re dead.
Real sex is beyond the mind.
Real sex makes you blind.
Real sex brings in the demons.
Real sex is the living semen.
Real sex whorls you deep
in the other’s sleep.
False sex is a skill we’ve learned.
False sex is a fear we’ve spurned.
False sex is the mind’s cute fun
meeting the other one one-on-one.
False sex is the fear of feeling.
False sex is the body’s heeling
falsely to the mind’s chosen fun.
False sex, facing one against one.
Real sex is a breath let out.
Real sex is an unstopped shout.
Real sex is tears on the face.
Real sex is fear let escape.
Real sex is the nude revealing
of oneself to the other’s healing.
Real sex can’t be talked about
or the flame goes out.
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