There’s a poem in here and they know it.
Though experience tells them I’ll blow it.
(Six or seven times.) Every last thing is a poem.
Especially this: it rhymes! C’mon baby, show ‘em.
Catch the form and pay the fee.
This one’s a composite-of-ghost-faces tree.
Produits de l’esprit et l’imagination en français.
Deux têtes dans le feu*, the rest held at bay.
I don’t know how much is resistance
and how much amounts to persistence
in wanting to barge through to tantalize.
Ambiguities easily paralyze.
But ambivalences have a chance.
Though often as not they will split your hot pants
at least you’ll have something to show.
The vagina may smile but the penis won’t grow.
Poems aren’t sex, you know.
*products of the mind and the imagination in French.
Two heads in the fire.
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