What I Think It'd Be Like To Fuck Certain Poets
Low expectations, and still, disappointment.
An ejaculation of dust and regret;
No indication it was ever otherwise, for him.
Should have partied with Sweeney or Eugenides.
E. E. Cummings:
The sex: messy, exquisite.
The puns: predictable, insufferable.
Tangents. Changes of costume, position, name.
A nonsense fetish becomes universal.
I am reminded, inevitably and tenderly, of the past --
Good, but maybe not as a sex thing.
William Carlos Williams:
The husband-of-twelve-years experience:
Tender, familiar. Cliche, but who's counting?
Leaves with a kiss and a grocery list.
You could not pay me enough money
To fuck Charles Bukowski.