By Louie Crew
My lover's buns are nothing like a God's.
Plate glass is far more rippled than his chest.
His six-inch fuse becomes his only rod.
With no cologne but rankest funk he's blessed.
I have seen glistening men, hirsute or smooth,
but no alluring luster's in his face.
And I've known even yokels less uncouth
clutching their men in graceless long embrace.
I like to hear my lover's tuneful shower,
but any glories there are merely myths,
for though his songs indeed my spunk empower,
the truth is that he all too often lithps.
And yet I swear my man's to me more real
than hunky clones who, unrehearsed, can't feel.
***
"Quantification"
By Louie Crew
"These physiologically recordable levels of orgasmic intensity
never must be presumed arbitrarily to be a full or consistent measure
of the subjective pleasure derived from individual orgasmic attainment."
-Masters and Johnson, Human Sexual Response
I'm here above you, waiting, calculat-
ing your slow undulations til I lose
the pleasure of my own, and making mat-
ing measure my manhood in terms of those
climaxes you receive, my cold sperm
mechanically spent to bring you joy.
How can you really wonder why I squirm
to get away to pis as soon as coy
game is done? why I hate you and this sad,
dead, intellectual fuck? Can you not touch
me too? Have I no ego to be fed?
J'accuse! You surely don't love me very much!
Mommy, mommy, give back the pretty toy
some mean girl's stolen from your little boy.
***
"Misdirections"
By Louie Crew
I still want to say about us the bit
that can't be said. Surely domestic quarrels
can't quite define us yet? I dream our world
brimmed with wonder, see only catshit
in our bed. The words I used--wondrous, spirit,
ineffable, mysterious--now, like pearls
discovered false, around my bone cage hurl
accusations. Lover's doom I call it.
Weary, walking one comes at end of day
to see the destination's back some way
along the road; yet one returning there
discovers that arrival was the air
she'd walked inside, the meadows, brooks and fields
he'd hurried through in great expectation.
***
"Four Friends Overheard at the Hairdresser's"
By Louie Crew
Jane: Willie's was the best.
Alison: No, Harry's, and he knew how to juice it, girl,
let me tell you. Why one summer night, way back
even before air-conditioning, when people could hear
your groaning the full length of the block....
Mary: But Harry knew only one thing to do with his big member,
and then you had to spend a week telling him what a
tough guy he was and
"Yes, honey, you're right; you do have a fine little
ass."
Now I'd take John any night of the week.
That tiny fuse of his was well connected.
Jane: You're right about that, but what I liked about John
was his smile.
I mean that big grin after he'd washed the dishes
was the same smile he'd hypnotize you with
till you hardly knew you both were done,
just watching that smile, and his only 4 or 5 inches.
Mary: I liked Milton's too--pretty _mocha chocolate, with an
edge of cheese.
He's the first man ever showed me other places to put
it.
Funny now to think that I ever had to learn.
Alison: But his jissum was too salty.
Jane: Not at all, not at all. I'll be Milton's Dead Sea
anytime, listen.
Mary: And Milton knew how to treat you right afterwards,
would lie there talking and laughing,
planning where we'd take our next trip,
hinting about some surprise he was buying for me.
He always said he liked best the part afterwards,
and he could lie still for half an hour
not saying a word, just an occasional sigh or giggle.
Alison: But I still hold out for Fred's....
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