Your Dadaist Lover
I want to be your Dadaist lover
erector clitoris imperative with the seven cardinal sins
I’ll seduce you from your neatly-pressed shirt
with Lambrusco-cream vomit—you can never resist
I’d break this Ming Dynasty vase
on your leonine back, just ask
you know love means shit to me
so, darling, in the public toilets when
you take me naked in your arms,
fuck me good, then spit on me
I promise I’ll defecate for you in jail
even if the booze freaks and pushers—
ever envious—break our necks.
in the limited run chapbook, “A Perfect
Night for Bloodless
Love,” Phony Lid Publications, USA, June 2000)
In this monandry the mourning is done
in the liquid amulet of sleep
after sundry attempts at semi-professional
still writhing warm from the translator’s
I’ve tried every feline act in the
scratching, lapping, yowling, bristling
a tamer’s whip and tramping in a
My fingers cruise down your southern parts
but they may have been pumice for all you
And the morning scorpios in with stealth
from the yellow floorboards to the
The sting swells my pruned womb,
tomb to many fetal advances.
You breakfast me with a kiss,
flaccidly, through passionately correct.
Sex is the enemy of love, Mother used to
I admit it now—the bitch had a point.
( previously published on-line in Perihelion
and that wild rush of screeching brakes
(like the euphoric crowd
on some messiah’s
Love is the alabaster pink
of nipples on the mortician’s table,
that self-destructive cold
which demands a cut of veins in return.
Let me spill down
that crack in the ceiling
call you by your secret name
with scirocco-laden siren voice
as I spread myself on your morning bed
and help you climax to your pain
( previously published in Niederngasse,
Switzerland; Issue 3, 1/99)
End of the Road
You stole me
as in a four-poster dream
from my precious gems of tumors
and the invading scent of camphor.
You splintered the IV pole,
ripped out the ornamental
butterfly from my wrist,
lifted me out the window.
My legs, white and helpless,
dangled in the air
like empty rag dolls as
I curled my body to your warmth.
Gently you laid me
on dew-soft grass I had learned
to crave while living
in cold beds and surgical tapes.
Through your eyes, I watched
the roll of polychrome clouds
bathe me with the first dawn
I had witnessed in years.
I slept then in your arms as if
I had been the casualty, not you,
in that road accident where I
held you trembling as you died.
© 2002 Arlene Ang
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