Chop up text from dirty French
novels, throw in some candy
hearts, make it a production, all
for what reason? That this is all
building to some astonishing
climax, as our bodies reach
through envelopes to grasp
with greedy hands desired limbs?
I'm not sick of it yet, because it
is interesting to dance with raw
desire— to imagine the eyes,
the breasts, the sex, how they all
might look in motion, in rapture,
in the second text which has to matter.
P.S. Two poems from Cheltenham on P.F.S. Post.
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