My Sex Poem It's in the air these days Sex That's right Sex is in the air Not the actual act of it Mind you Nor the odour of it But let me tell you Boys and girls And even those undecided That sex is surely in the air these days Where? You might ask. Where is all this sex in the air? Well, I'll tell ya On odd nights In odd places Where odd people converge Oddly enough The sex of which I speak Is at your local poetry reading Surprise, surprise! You wouldn't have thought so, eh? Well neither would I But it's true No word of a lie The poets are spouting sex Like it was going out of style And I'm just as confused as you! In little cafes where meek folks sit Hunched in dark corners Like the creepy guy at a strip show They are brewing up Libido laden literary labia lappin love that�. Lavishes the likes of me with l-l-l-lust Dreaming up delightfully degrading dirt Manufacturing maliciously moist metaphors With the mightiest and most exquisite of all phalluses, The pen Similes as sweet as swanky sweat swelling up imagination And blood Intricately describing the shapes of orgasms And the glorious scent of the peachy drippletts thereof mmmmm� and I began to think I got�s t�get me som'a dat! So sat I down One phallus in either hand To write a sex poem of my very own Eager little beaver that I am I was finally going to do it After all these years All the anticipation I was going to find out for myself Just what it was all about Intellectually rock-erect and rarin' to go I delicately licked the ball tip of my pen (More for effect than anything else) And touched it's freshly moistened end To a pure white sheet of paper And, oh my friends, What happened� What happened? Well, in this aspect I find I'm still a virgin Fumbling awkwardly trough Tripping over myself Anticipating too much And sticking things where they just don't belong Hamburger. See what I mean? I'm no good at this stuff! I tried this I tried that I tried everything Hell, the things I did with a pen Would shame Henry Miller! And make Freud run to his mommy! And this is what it all came to This is what it is My Sex Poem So here I sit Intellectually impotent Consoling my wounded writer's ego With that old cliche And you all know what it is they say 'Those who talk about writing sex poems the most Actually do it the least.' |