This is how it should be broken--
PHONE SEX 2: CYRANO
People call 900 numbers and pay for this--
the genitalic equivalent of defecation.
In both: passing relief, from the body expelling
either toxins or the want of love,
but the soul, too, empty at birth, returns to its void.
You slosh alone through a desert of sticky underwear
and hopeless sentiments.
You weren't in the far-off land of the woman who drew you,
You were right where you sat, telephonic demon luster,
legs splayed like a vasectomy patient,
but got to be Poet because she would
whisper into your phone "Kiss my cunt"
and all you had were the performative words,
miraculous cunnilingual speech,
to raise her breath to crying gasps.
In the same Masque of Passion you would speak
her down on you, paint a word picture
to drive you both insane because you could
combine Fragonard's aether with Georg Grosz's stench.
But when she would speak as herself, a bid
to raise your spirit, it was pedestrian,
worked only because even her words were
your private object of desire. And you,
with secret contempt, owned a pornographer's heart,
while all she had was loneliness and the itch
of a body surrounded with plaster.
KTW/1-24-08
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Kenneth Wolman kenwolman.wordpress.com
Abuse of power comes as no surprise--Jenny Holzer
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