Poetry - The Wormwood Collective, Absinthe Literary Review

2002 Eros and Thanatos PrizePoetics
by Arlene Ang

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.


(previously published 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 Kama Sutra

still writhing warm from the translator’s hands.

I’ve tried every feline act in the erotica:

scratching, lapping, yowling, bristling with

a tamer’s whip and tramping in a black-panther suit.

My fingers cruise down your southern parts

but they may have been pumice for all you cared.


And the morning scorpios in with stealth

from the yellow floorboards to the four-poster.

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 say.

I admit it now—the bitch had a point.


( previously published on-line in Perihelion 6/98)





Remember me

and that wild rush of screeching brakes

(like the euphoric crowd that insisted

on some messiah’s death)

Love is the alabaster pink

of nipples on the mortician’s table,

and cold

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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