Cunts
(Upon Receiving a Solicitation for Membership in The Swingers Life Club)
The Venus
de Milo didn’t have one, at least no pussy
that left
its shadow in the marble, but Botticelli’s Venus,
though
we cannot see it for her sea-anemone hand,
did, no
doubt-an amber-furred dear mouth we would kiss
could
we enter the Arcadian plane of the painting.
We must
assimilate cunts to our creed of beauty.
September
Morn held her thighs tight shut, and the dolls
we grew
up undressing had nothing much there, not even
MADE IN
USA,
but the
beauties we must learn to worship now all
have spread
legs, splayed in bedspreaded motel beds,
and the
snowflakes that burst forth are no two alike:
convolute
snapdragons, portal and tears
and T-bones
of hair, lips lurid as slices of salmon,
whirlpooly
wisps more ticklish than skin, black brooms
a witch
could ride cackling through the spatter of stars,
assholes
a-stare like monocles tiny as dimes.
“I adore French culture and can really blow your mind”
“half of an ultra-sophisticated couple prefers”
“love modeling with guys or gals and groovy parties”
“affectionate young housewife would like to meet”
“attractive broadminded funloving exotic tastes”
glory
Gloria fellatio Felicia Connie your cunt
is Platonism
upside down and really opens innocence
the last
inch wider: I bite and I believe.
“Who
put this mouse between my legs if not the Lord?
Who knocks
to enter? Pigs of many stripes.
My cunt
is me, it lathers and it loves
because
its emptiness knows nothing else to do.
Here comes
the stalwart cock, numb-headed hater,
assassin
dragging behind him in a wrinkled sack
reproduction’s
two stooges; refrigerated in blood,
the salt
sperm thrashes to mix with my lipstick.
Nibble
my nipples, you fish. My eyelashes tickle your glans
while
my cunt like a shark gone senile yawns for its meal.
In my
prison your head will lean against the wet red wall
and beg
for a pardon and my blood will beat back No.
Here is
my being, my jewel, simpler than a diamond,
finer-spun
than Assyrian gold and the Book of Kells,
nobler
than a theorem by Euler, more darling than a dimple
in a Steuben-glass Shirly Temple—flesh-flower, riddle
of more
levels than a Pyramid passageway greased with balm.
Adore!”
A woman
once upon a bed with me
to kiss
my soul went down but in addition thrust
her ass
up to my face and trembled all her length
so I knew
something rare was being served; of course
the lapping
was an ecstasy, but such an ecstasy
I prayed
her distant face grow still so I could drink
the deeper
of this widening self that only lacked
the prick
of stars to be a firmament.
“Adore
this hole
that bleeds with the moon so you can be born!”
Stretched
like a howl between the feet pushing the stirrups
the poor
slit yields up the bubble of a skull.
Glad tunnel
of life, foretaste of resurrection,
slick
applicant of appropriate friction
springing
loose the critical honey from the delirious bee.
“You can meet these swinging gals” “you
can be in direct contact with these free-thinking modern people”
“if you a Polaroid photography enthusiast”
“you can rest assured your membership”
“you will discover the most exquisite, intimate”
“you”
and the clitoris
like a
little hurt girl turns its face to the corner.
Well,
how were we to know that all you fat sweethearts
were as
much the vagina’s victim as the poor satyr who sells
his mother’s
IBM preferred to procure three whores
to have
three ways at once-by land, by sea, by air?
“It
was all a sacred mush of little pips to me.”
Now you
tell us, tell us and tell us, of a magical doorbell
crocheted
of swollen nerves beneath the fur
and all
the pallid moon from scalp to toes decuple
not quite
this molehill of a mountain is
the Mare
of Disenchantment, the Plain of No Response.
Who could
have known, when you are edible all over?
So edible
we gobble even your political views
As they
untwist in lamplight, like lemon peel from a knife.
Tell us
O tell us why is it why
the hairs
on the nape of your neck say cunt
and the
swirl in your laugh says cunt
and your
fingernails flanking cigarette
and the
red of the roof of your mouth and your mischief
and your
passion for the sleeping dogs and the ay
you shape
hamburgers naked-handed and the way
you squat
to a crying child so the labia stain
your
underpants cry cunt CUNT there is almost
CUNT too much of a CUNT good thing CUNT
“And
howzabout
That split
banana second when
(a clouded
tear in its single eye,
stiff
angel stuffed with ichor)
the semen
in good faith leaps
(no shadows
live on marble
like these
that coat my helpless hands)
and your
[unmentionable]
enhouses
the cosmic stranger with a pinch?”
It is
true, something vital ebbs from the process
once the
female is considered not a monstrous emissary
from the
natural darkness but as possessing personhood
with its
attendant rights, and wit.
I pulled
a Tampax with my teeth and found it, darling,
not so
bloody. I loved the death between your toes.
I glazed
my sallow fill in motel light until
your cunt
became my own, and I a girl. I lost
my hard-on
quite; my consciousness stayed raised.
Your mouth
became a fumble at my groin.
You would
not let me buck away. I came,
and sobbed,
triumphantly repentant. You said
with a
smile of surprise it was warm,
warm on
the back of your throat, hitting,
and not
salty, but sweet.
We want
to fill your cunt but are unmanned.
My sobbing
felt like coming. Fond monster,
you swallowed
my tears. We were plighted.
I was
afraid. I adore your cunt. But why
is
there only ones? Is one enough? You cunt.
“I’m available…and so are hundreds of other
eager young girls who are ready to pose FOR YOU!”
Corinna,
even your shit has something to be said for it
“avant garde of a new era of freedom” (Coronet)
“dawn of a culture phenomenon” (Playboy)
“Dr. Gilbert Bartell, the renowned culture anthropologist”
“page after page of totally rewarding sexual knowledge
that will be an invaluable asset in your search for greater
sexual understanding Only through complete understanding
can man hope” “Discretion is our middle name!”
Daphne,
your fortune moistens. Stand. Bend down. Smile.
