Live Nude Poems

Perverse Cowgirl Know what you’re saying before you say it. Your partner of choice may have an opinion. You must efuckingnunciate carefully so that when you hop on or your partner hops on there needs to be between spasms a careful avoidance of cramp. That’s when you’re talking about something else. A perverse cowgirl, though is someone you want to be next to you in the firefights of life and the enrapturing of the erotic. They are evil when you need them to be and crushingly familiar with your Eros and your Than- atos. If you have kink in you they’ll bring it out. Bells on, and maybe a bit of feathers and the bedroom door firmly set against the eventual creep of your children who will see something that takes years of therapy to unsee and never ever gets forgotten. On your deathbed they will remember and before they cry will think of you in lingerie. O God.

Walking the line I felt a stalwart black eye of the hurricane blindside me at midmorning. Tore down the street 110 miles per only to find my stop at the end of the whine in Gloucester where I dropped off Olson’s now-fenced entry to the Harbor.  A seagull floated me down but I rose like seltzer bubbles all the way to the end, where piers from three centuries ago aggro’ed me into submission. I beat the oxygen to the surface but flailed in the face of the fish company taken over the wharf puked up my brunch and decided to drive up the Cape but lost my way on Bearskin Neck where all the protopoets go for ice cream or to gig their hard drives into submission. Their poet hats are so quaint. I’d like to bust them in the nose.