A FEW POEMS ON MEN, WOMEN AND SEX
A FEW POEMS ON MEN, WOMEN AND SEX
BY
DAVID GOTTFRIED
I have many dozens of poems about men, women and sex. These were selected at random. These aren’t my best poems; they are being held in reserve for someone who wants to shell out some bucks.
Taking Dustin Hoffman’s Place in “The Graduate”
Anne Bancroft asks:
Do you want me to seduce you ?
Yes, I want you to seduce me
I went to smell your slithering stockings
Evil of Eve, apple of my eye
You bitch, you beautifully beckon my fall
Yes, I want you to seduce me.
To accuse me
To prove me to myself
Rip away my flirting shirt
Those elongated tails that mimic a skirt
Make them see my muscled girth
Down with the jeans
Make me be so dreadfully obscene
Show me how evil you really are.
Bathed in Vaginal Acid
Your visage singed our eyes like laser beams
And your voice
Was more regal than Elizabeth the First and Julius Caesar all
Rolled into one Androgynous Monster
When I saw your legs slipping into stockings
I wanted to dive down deep and eat
Climbing your Immaculate White Thighs
Into your eternally virginal heart, splendidly sarcastic
Your contempt is polished and made crystalline
A sneering precious gem beating the market
Slicing the truth into different facets of the same heartless stone
Twinkling out of both sides of your preening portal
Inviting and rejecting, inviting then rejecting
You oscillate like a metronome
Making the beat that strides through “Mrs. Robinson”
Prideful, portentous, a svelte rock n roller till the end
NICE GUYS DIE OF AIDS
The sound of his voice smelled like a far too sweet perfume
A Kindness gone rancid it was something to exhume
Sterilize and sweep-up with a vengeful, cold vacuum
Go back and kill it in its hopeless, bewitched womb
His high notes scratched like woolen leggings worn
By little boys in kindergarten, lost and forlorn
Scraping and scratching and leaving smooth skin torn
Like a nipple or a phallus plainly pierced with scorn
The weak and weary whimpers and Monday morning whines
The schoolyards of taunts, assaults and fearsome, freezing lines
Dreading those smacks on his slight and too soft spine
An avalanche of gloom that fate loves to assign
The muffle in his breath betrayed an early death
A bird that failed to make a desperate southern trek
Squashed and degraded like a helpless insect
Alone, without brothers and no strength left
(I’d like to tell him I love him, but of course I wouldn’t risk the shame)
The Blond and Brilliant Girls
They don’t capitalize their I’s
Know they’re kind and bright and wise
Their beatific angel eyes
Are laser beams that cauterize
Their voices flutter, say hello
As gentle as a fairy doe
With hearts as pure as driven snow
Their Lyme disease is sown, will grow
Their lithe bodies wiggle and dance
And beckon you to take a chance
Submit to fortune, happenstance
Primordial snakes snare, advance
Exhaling idealism’s breeze
Their hearts are worn upon their sleeves
But calculating by degrees
You’re locked in an asthmatic wheeze
Their lips are red as cherry wine
The healthful blush becomes quinine
Drink the nectar quite divine
You’re stupefied, stunned, supine
And when you’re hurt they feign surprise
Devise a thousand alibis
Quite content you won’t surmise
That everything is lies, disguise
Mating
I ride the horse so black and brave
I swim through currents cold and cruel
And if you think I am a knave
I’ll show you who’s the bigger fool
You’ll quiver like a chastened slave
You’ll be my pliant, passive tool
And on your flesh I will engrave
A tattoo of my raunchy rule
Submit to me, the man you crave
Your pleasures are a meager gruel
My spike will make your life less grave
Don’t be a stupid, stubborn mule
And do not cry and rant and rave
Your freedom is a whirling pool
Your tumult will not let you save
Or cherish life as its lived dual
THE WOMEN OF HENRY JAMES AND EDITH WHARTON
Dowagers empowered are ready for a bout
They tower through the hours, titanic and quite stout
With clout, and no doubt, they’re proud in their redoubt
They’ll devour, you’ll cower, and perhaps peevishly pout
They declaim on their fame and what they might attain
The height of Christian rectitude they always do maintain
They wear the grandest gowns with a flowing frilly train
Their upper lips are always stiff, though balls can be a drain
“Oh what a strain,” “she’s to blame,” “why must you prate”
With such incisive wit they do pontificate, orate
Intelligence comes naturally to an old money estate
Good breeding has preserved their triumphal regal trait
The caviar on their plate may fail to satiate
No matter how palatial it just tends to jar and grate
But such is the destiny and predetermined fate
Of brilliant, blistering women that these novelists gestate
SEEING TRICIA NIXON, WHEN I WAS 15, AT AN ANTIWAR DEMONSTRATION IN 1972
I stood 10 feel way from Tricia
And our gang shouted,
1, 2, 3, 4 we don’t want your fucking war
And
She looked like her chlorine pool
Her upturned nose said I was a fool
Her angry tears stung like the water
The blondest beast gave no quarter
Her ravishing rage was eloquent
A lake devoid of sediment
A fluid approximating fire
Her arias arrogated the choir
A sparkling queen all aquamarine
The tartest speech that loves to demean
Her eyes glared like the radiant sun
My skin shriveled as she won
Her bathing suit licked her skin
The buttocks were like mescaline
A curvy dream of the wiggily sweet
The damn desire she’d defeat
SEEING “TAXI DRIVER”
I'll never forget when I saw “Taxi Driver” and dropped acid
Down my throat
The morning mists of Washington Square Park
(Or the exuberance of New York's
"F" subway line)
Carried me aloft to Fifty Ninth Street
Where all the big movies played
In spanking new theaters
And the concession stand came from Penny Lane
and Strawberry Fields
Sugarcoated foreplay before the Fuck
(Spitting in your eyes
Drilling through your ears
Simulating jismic dreams of plenty
A lust that lasts for years)
And when the show was over
All the mannequins of nearby Bloomingdales gave me a hard on
The spring was turning to summer
Sweet limbs loomed large and smooth
Street lights all seemed to twinkle
And then it was time to go home
And I looked for the "F" train to go home
I walked round and round the street
But I couldn't find it because I was high
I still haven't found it
TAXI DRIVER, POSTSCRIPT
My favorite thing
Is letting the phone ring and not picking up
Hearing your voices on the answering machine
Imploring, pleading
Go ahead and beg some more
Cry baby
Cry me a song of sweety pie tears
Of strawberry nose
And blackberry eyes
You have no allies
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2008 to 2020