Wifey Boozer

7 Stanzas for 7 Orgasms

First Thought, Best Thought
Those kind of people...
Who love French whore houses
or just the smell of them,
or the panties.
Especially the panties.
And call the French whore
their Angel.
That's the type of person
Who turns me on
At quarter after one in the morning
to Ginsberg.

Allusion to the Bluebird
But the type of person, the recovering alcoholic and the junkie,
Who brakes down laughing with him at the preface and crying with the prologue
At 20 after one (in the morning, the noon, the night)
That's the type of person.
Who makes a man
Weep.
Do you?

Having A Dry Drink With The White Rabbit
The type of people
Who hang around in derelict, dimly-lit bars
At no known hours of the morning, the noon, and the night.
And don't drink (weep).
Just talk.
About sexy little beat poets
and Their sexy little tatas.
Mork and Mindy in the morning, with the breakfast they don't eat in bed
(We don't eat food, wink)
Alluding to books no one's read (those are the best)
Films no one's seen,
Records no one's heard.
Admirable drunks, Jews, and gays.
Those are the type of people
With past suicides in vain,
Nineteenth nervous breakdowns,
Who are clinically schitzomanic, crazy
Sons and daughters of bitches.
Who make love like rabbits on speed.

A Hell of a Worth-While Phone-Bill
The type of person
Who makes proposals with ring-pops.
And knows my words,
like "allusion", "debauchery", "impervious", "synonymous", and
"Carrot".
That's the type of person
Who's serotonin leaks out his iris'
On my bare breasts
While I fall him to sleep
With a sweet smoker's voice
Through various cable wires in Upstate New York
That's the type of person I'd marry,
After one week point five.

The Dead Poet's Society Concluded
The type of person
Who's blood-alcohol level
Was a permanent double-oh-seven
Seven days ago today.
And if she came blood then,
would've bled-out
Hydrocodone.
(And you would've ate it anyway,
So I didn't feel my own self-induced illness).
That's the type of person
Who thinks she's lost her edge
Because she can't drink near Bukowski's grave
But kind of has it
Because, well, like the gay Jew said,
Someone has to talk
For our Dead Poets.

The Holy Grail of Uncompeting Mobsters
The type of person
Who can make me come
Seven times
In an hour
Or less,
Just from his voice.
The type of person
Who actually has a voice
(In this day and age!)
Astounds me.
Because he thinks
I am
A good person.
Despite that we murdered Al Capone,
and did lunch with Lansky.

A Pretty Good Read
The type of people
Who make love all of the morning, the noon, and the night
And call it exercsie.
And fast
Because they can't stop fucking
And pass out (sober!) for two days
Because of it, worth it (first thought, best thought)
Who fall asleep on eachother,
While one's insomniac reads one's Ginsberg and chain-smokes in beautiful, unplastic agony.
Subconciously rubbing the sleeping man's head (which head?)
With undone, come-red nails (fingers).
And despite the agony, despite the physicians, despite the sobriety, despite the clinic, despite the manic, despite the angst, despite the living-situation, despite the family-situation, despite the blood, despite the pain, and everything.
She smiles.
Puts the cigarette out in the soda-filled wine glass, puts the pen down, turns the lights off, and goes to sleep with him, naked and happy, next to Cosmopolitan Greetings and our glasses.

And despite the happiness and sobriety,
Well, hell,
I think we're a pretty good read.

__________________


... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]