KapitolPhoto
Active member
in my cellar the poisoned mice, thirst to death,
come out to die on the cement, in the center
of the floor. This particular corpse seemed fat,
so side-ways plump that pregnancy crossed my mind,
and, picking it up by the tail, I saw, sure enough,
at the base of the tail her tiny neat vagina,
a pumpkin-seed-shaped break in the dulcet fur.
I had murdered a matriarch, with d-Con.
Revelation of the vagina's simplicity
had come to me before. Tossing the tiny body
into the woods, I remembered another
woods-surrounded house, where I and another
lay together upstairs, and had heard
a sound downstairs, her husband or the wind.
the phantom sound, like an alchemist's pinch,
turned my erection inconvenient.
we listened, our love-flushed faces an inch apart.
the sound was not repeated. in the silence,
as the house resumed its enclosing, she said,
her voice thickened and soft and distinct,
'put it in me.' in my wild mind's eye i saw
the vagina as a simple wanting, framed in fur,
kept out of sight between the legs but always there,
a gentle nagging, a moist accommodacy.
a man and not a mouse, yet with a bed-squeak,
i fell to my duty, our ungainly huddle
and its tense outcome less memorable
than the urgent, imperilled invitation.
how dear she was-her husband, that creep,
creeping about for all we knew-to sock it to
herself and give me in words the carte blance
boys dream of but seldom receive spelled out.
i loved her for it, and for afterwards
with a touch of a blush confessing,
'i don't want to be coarse for you,' as if women
could be bluntly brutes as men.
until that moment i did not suspect
that sex had an equitable basis.
the cat creeps below, but lad mice
still put their dulcet selves at risk, and die.
suppose that moment, frozen, were heaven or hell:
our hearts would thump until the death of stars,
the trees outside would stir their golden edges,
the bed would squeak, the frightened inch
between our skins would hold the headboards' grain,
her brazen thighs would simply, frankly part,
our eyes and breath would forever entertain
our mutual inquisition. put it in.
suspended above the abyss of her desire,
i feel as far flung as a constellation
colors: the golden-edged trees, the lilac sheets,
the mousy green of her self-startled eyes.
we are furtive, gigantic, our stolen hour
together a swollen eternity.
we enter into one another;the universe
rises about us like a hostile house.
- John Updike
ahh, another great poem about mice having sex...
i wish i could be a poet
god invented alcohol so the irish wouldn't take over the world
come out to die on the cement, in the center
of the floor. This particular corpse seemed fat,
so side-ways plump that pregnancy crossed my mind,
and, picking it up by the tail, I saw, sure enough,
at the base of the tail her tiny neat vagina,
a pumpkin-seed-shaped break in the dulcet fur.
I had murdered a matriarch, with d-Con.
Revelation of the vagina's simplicity
had come to me before. Tossing the tiny body
into the woods, I remembered another
woods-surrounded house, where I and another
lay together upstairs, and had heard
a sound downstairs, her husband or the wind.
the phantom sound, like an alchemist's pinch,
turned my erection inconvenient.
we listened, our love-flushed faces an inch apart.
the sound was not repeated. in the silence,
as the house resumed its enclosing, she said,
her voice thickened and soft and distinct,
'put it in me.' in my wild mind's eye i saw
the vagina as a simple wanting, framed in fur,
kept out of sight between the legs but always there,
a gentle nagging, a moist accommodacy.
a man and not a mouse, yet with a bed-squeak,
i fell to my duty, our ungainly huddle
and its tense outcome less memorable
than the urgent, imperilled invitation.
how dear she was-her husband, that creep,
creeping about for all we knew-to sock it to
herself and give me in words the carte blance
boys dream of but seldom receive spelled out.
i loved her for it, and for afterwards
with a touch of a blush confessing,
'i don't want to be coarse for you,' as if women
could be bluntly brutes as men.
until that moment i did not suspect
that sex had an equitable basis.
the cat creeps below, but lad mice
still put their dulcet selves at risk, and die.
suppose that moment, frozen, were heaven or hell:
our hearts would thump until the death of stars,
the trees outside would stir their golden edges,
the bed would squeak, the frightened inch
between our skins would hold the headboards' grain,
her brazen thighs would simply, frankly part,
our eyes and breath would forever entertain
our mutual inquisition. put it in.
suspended above the abyss of her desire,
i feel as far flung as a constellation
colors: the golden-edged trees, the lilac sheets,
the mousy green of her self-startled eyes.
we are furtive, gigantic, our stolen hour
together a swollen eternity.
we enter into one another;the universe
rises about us like a hostile house.
- John Updike
ahh, another great poem about mice having sex...
i wish i could be a poet
god invented alcohol so the irish wouldn't take over the world
