the penis is something that fits into the vagina so's the tampax or sponge therefore Aristotle never thought of women at all the penis like a tree fits into mouth, hands and asshole too it can be the subject of an academic poem disguised as a sloop, catapult or catamaran's mastpole never the monthly menstruation will she belie tradition's bloody demagoguery enough to appear in the rough in a poem in a monthly I dream I had a deep cut on my finger filled with a delicious tofu cake and when you took off your clothes your penis was among them hanging by a cord on a hook I took it down hoping its disassociation from being would not thus prevent its manly erection from existing and therefore I tried it out and it went well such as license as mine perhaps made it swell independent I think the world is all fucked up in many ways (see footnotes) and one of these is the apparent interdiction in dumb poetic tradition of speaking of and being heard on the glories of sublime menstruation I first got my period when I was twelve the day my father died at least I knew what it was, some girls didn't then we were told you can't go swimming but don't you wanna have children so much for confessionalism I won't call on the moon like in a real poem or anthropology or the bible or talk about being untouchable or power etc. I've nothing at all to say but to exercise my freedom to speak about everything now that poems've got everything in them even rhetoric and dailiness plus the names of things again including flowers like the spotted touch-me-not so inviting to hummingbirds and I'm writing one I'd like to mention or say blatantly I got my period today probably like nobody certainly in the nineteenth century ever did and if you really wanna know most of us you know all get ours on the same day no kidding and we talk about it frequently and peripatetically Alice with Peggy Peggy with Marion Marion with me me with Anne Anne with Alice Peggy with me Grace with Peggy Marion with Grace So Friends! Hold the bloody sponge up! For all to see!
Bernadette Mayer - 1945-
First Turn to Me...
First turn to me after a shower, you come inside me sideways as always in the morning you ask me to be on top of you, then we take a nap, we’re late for school you arrive at night inspired and drunk, there is no reason for our clothes we take a bath and lie down facing each other, then later we turn over, finally you come we face each other and talk about childhood as soon as I touch your penis I wind up coming you stop by in the morning to say hello we sit on the bed indian fashion not touching in the middle of the night you come home from a nightclub, we don’t get past the bureau next day it’s the table, and after that the chair because I want so much to sit you down & suck your cock you ask me to hold your wrists, but then when I touch your neck with both my hands you come it’s early morning and you decide to very quietly come on my knee because of the children you’ve been away at school for centuries, your girlfriend has left you, you come four times before morning you tell me you masturbated in the hotel before you came by I don’t believe it, I serve the lentil soup naked I massage your feet to seduce you, you are reluctant, my feet wind up at your neck and ankles you try not to come too quickly also, you dont want to have a baby I stand up from the bath, you say turn around and kiss the backs of my legs and my ass you suck my cunt for a thousand years, you are weary at last I remember my father’s anger and I come you have no patience and come right away I get revenge and won’t let you sleep all night we make out for so long we can’t remember how we wound up hitting our heads against the wall I lie on my stomach, you put one hand under me and one hand over me and that way can love me you appear without notice and with flowers I fall for it and we become missionaries you say you can only fuck me up the ass when you are drunk so we try it sober in a room at the farm we lie together one night, exhausted couplets and don’t make love. does this mean we’ve had enough? watching t.v. we wonder if each other wants to interrupt the plot; later I beg you to read to me like the Chinese we count 81 thrusts then 9 more out loud till we both come I come three times before you do and then it seems you’re mad and never will it’s only fair for a woman to come more think of all the times they didn’t care