ars poeterotica

should you come across a creature devoid

of the leisurely gift of finding pleasure in poetry–  say to them–

imagine my poem is alive,
is a body,
My Body.

caress, with your eyes
this simile. that Metaphor

stroke the hard length
of iambic pentameter
sense the rhythm of rhyme,
the motion of meter;

this is a Virgin, and you, sweet lover,
you’re going to pop this cherry.

You’re gonna fuck its brains out.

(at this point your audience may blush, continue)

imagine this body is ready,
is waiting,
aquiver all onomatopaeia and assonance;
slide your tongue along the rim
of alliteration; hear it hiss moans like melting moonshine on your mouth.

Wait! he isn’t ready yet. More foreplay.
(she, if you will.)

now: see that flesh there, the personification?
yes, yes, that’s the one.
Bite it.
taste it like rare delicacies long forgotten,
let the sapient flavor hurt your mouth with its rush. Oh!
you hear how fuckin’ loud this poem moans?

and now, impatient One, the act.

reach into this poem, this Body
firmly grasp the cherry of its meaningless meaning; grasp, caress
stroke
pummel
ram

(ohfuckinggodyes)

There! you see the juices running out? This is your moment!
you’ve fucked the poem dry! you understand it now!

(and now your audience is flushed,
spent,
coaxed wide open. their eyes are glazed.

Feel accomplished, Teacher– not one of these seductors will ever yawn at a poem again. )

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