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RON ANDROLA

Jennifer's Feminist Poem
you can be a lesbian lapping
honeyed flesh-pit where warm clear lava
is like the goo of rolling worms, slop,
slapping tails like bull-whip snap:  ah love,

is freedom what tastes sweet? or her, yr girlfriend, caught turning on a
spit of delicious moans, stripped & skinned alive above gorgeous flames
of yr volcanic

tongue, rawness burnt away but everything pink remains, boiled?
i've never met a genital who wasn't metaphoric right at my lips.  most
clean

human bodies taste good a couple years, then bland, nothing, not even
dead-musky. cunt or cock
or big toe or

tit, we
ripen as teens, sweeten in our 20's,
sour in 30's providing the mind works,
& in our 40's nobody even sniffs us.

breaking skin, love is spiritual fucking,
ghosts enmeshed like clouds & sun-shades somewhere in the past
& very far away.

SYLVIA PLATH MEETS D.A. LEVY IN SUICIDE HEAVEN
(from the dual chapbook with paul weinman,
AIRY EL, From Da Dead Press)


"fuck that garble of intellectualized
depression, lady, take a hit of some this celestial dope..."

levy's face blow apart, rotting,
tip of golden pipette in a black, meat-ripped hole

"death is the mentalness,
debris remains of orgasm
this dream-soul Life created

this timelessness..."
sylvia is sizzling with happiness.  she don't want flowers & the flowers
implode.  she wants pain

& nothing is felt.  she enjoys the works of d.a. levy from a british
distance.  levy loves sylvia's
transparency & pink psychic energy.

they blend together in the hands of God
perfectly compatible
molecules.

they blow smoke
laughing
mummy-like over History.


SUCKING MY MORNING PIPE

   (for gabriele)


if you were here & how yr hair wld burn my fingers hoarse & gutteral
numbness unclogged like kitchen drain racing
hot water & our steam

this smoke i've clipped, sipping autumn-morning coffee, listening to
classical pbs radio, i suck yr face here all the way from chicago,
& yr smile & laugh

& when you bent to pick books from the floor
i saw cleavage & felt softness envelope my lips
i will admit this:  i pulled diane's nightgown up bunched around her warm
waist,

i'd opened my eyes to 4:30 on the clock, she
usually wears panties but wasn't & i hugged & pressed & went thru her
arm to palm a little breast, & she groaned she didn't want to she

was sleeping, my cock was its biggest & thumping against her pillowy
ass, rubbing,
i cld not stop, both hands went down to grasp
my branch, & i pumped it like a delirioius tuba

which burst ice-bubbles of warmth
over my belly & the sheets & diane's wonderful wonderful ass & her
snoring never stopped.

but i got up,
dried off with a towel,
& thought
what a poem i live

SPONTANEOUS SHIT


she set me up.
i am a self-involved poet.
every sensory particle of life
creates the art of poetry as confessions
of a soul.  the deeper inside the heart,
the rawness,
spillage
from the brim of sanity & reason.
she became a cowgirl since her father
is a cowboy, a middle-aged cowgirl
setting me up for years of free cash
via domestic relations.
heartless, brutal, cowgirl witch-bitch
is an apt description for all i want to
see of her.


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