Old School Funk, Morgan Freeman, Bill Cosby, Rita Moreno, Easy Reader, Letter Man and the Spellbinder, Fargo North (Decoder), Jennifer of the Jungle all in one frickin’ show: back in the 70s The Electric Company was so far beyond anything my little brain could understand but I loved going along for the ride.
There are some spaces that feel all precious;
the small fuzzy-haired curve of my skull-bone
where they used forceps to pull me free, plus
these words. I love these words. Get a backbone,
dear, where we’re going you’ll need it. Reading
about your fantasies, usually they
include titanic boobs bouncing, flopping,
swaying, cocks that never droop. No wordplay,
no wit, no camp. That’s not kink. An echo
can moan better. Gimme color. Vulva
purple. Cock brown. Start with this sea coral,
blue blush, start glistening deeper, pink glow,
peach wet, sopping scarlet, clenched fuchsia.
I hit a pleasure point, your thigh, my skull.
I cropped and then turned upside down this image from Waterhouse’s painting Echo and Narcissus, happy to see that Narcissus’ reflection isn’t actually looking at himself, he is staring at the audience.
How does that simple gesture of finger
across lips silence us? How do fingers
digging deep into fabric mean pleasure?
I’ve drunk from dripping rain; but what is hers
isn’t mine. What do butch queens signify?
If I’m narcissistic and perverted
it is only because such love is sly
and hard to find; like a booty goon, stud
muffin or power bottom. All the words
that we have for the Other, for one who
isn’t, could fit on the head of a cock,
a pin, a rent boy’s tongue. I’m the bastard’s
silence. The first question. How much can you
take in? Open your mouth, but please, don’t talk.