photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/veganerotica/
was digging through my computer for stuff to revise; I found this.
I don't remember writing it, but I like it enough to work with.
working title for the revision: "Asshead"
This is just to tell you
I have objectified you.
For the purposes of this poem,
it seemed, shall we say,
convenient
to use you, use your body
and my body's reaction to your body
as a purely chemical physical
metaphor for the metaphysical
conceits of your mind
and my mind's reaction to your mind.
I'm not sure if bad poetry
about a burrito can be successfully related
to the leather bodice
that I think would be…
lovely…
with your hornrimmed glasses.
I want you, to me, to be everything
I can't have.
I want you to be
in a black satin dress,
just so,
hemmed up to here,
straps just like this,
and cut down to there.
I want to wake up
to find you reading
in the window.
Maybe Sarte,
maybe Melville.
Not Cosmo, though
(in a pinch),
I'd accept Newsweek.
I want to be single
so I can say this and feel
a little less guilt.
But it's just like I said.
I can't use your ass
to represent your head.
