I will slur
And heel and hem and haw
I will eat a monkey paw
When you call me up and command me to come over to
your house for sex
and tea biscuits, I shall clandestinely drop my
cumberbund down the
dumbwaiter chute.
Lutes will serenade us like liquid lemonade.
You will glisten like newborn snow, and I will listen like a
clairvoyant
nipple clamp.
It will be sex, like nobody has ever had it before in the
history of
postmodern lovemaking.
It will be sex, even if it isn't.
It will be sex, even if only in theory, even if it's only
pantomine, even if it's just a memory, or a dream or a
symphonic approximation;
after a summer of autonomous sodomy and
National Geographic specials
about the pretty animals that use
other animals as food
by eating them.
on television.
But we shouldn't even watch television,
we should just have sex:
Epoch making, earth shaking,
Teeth chattering, dish clattering,
Fish frying, eye popping,
Never stopping, bunny hopping,
Toe tapping, Joseph Papping sex,
Shakespeare in the park kinda sex.
D train to Coney Island vacation kinda sex.
Clandestine in the airplane laboratory kind of sex,
Olympic marathon sex.
All the different ways that we feel like having sex,
we should,
until we grow old and bored and disillusioned.
The let us rekindle our feelings,
forget our despair and our celibate nonsense
and do it like bunnyrats till the cows
come home to roost.
so call me sometime, and let's have sex.
