lilia

Poem about Beatnik Sex

He thought himself a God
(A King of Poetry he was)
A sensitive man’s man,
Hero of prose and rant...
He saw himself the center of all things
(And all things circled him)
But he was an asshole to say the least
He hobnobbed with the best of them
The Beat Generation his pals,
Bukowski, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg
And all the coffee house groupies
-all so available, smart and pretty-
He thought he was a ladies man,
His men friends tried to warn me
(He's an emotional serial killer they said)
I ignored them.

Said he began to write in high school
(back in ole Brooklyn)
So that he could get laid-
Just out of high school myself,
He wrote me a poem, called me his muse,
that's why I climbed into his bed-
He went through all the motions
but he never got me off-
I didn’t even know
what an orgasm was way back then,
but I played my part as best I knew
I liked his scruffy beard.
I swooned and swayed and worshiped him,
I lingered on his every word
(I fed his ego well)
He was my all talented God- My Everything!
He called me his savior from the "Kerouac Disease"
(But I couldn't save him)

He was older than my daddy
I was younger than his child
I was the poet's girlfriend
(An old man’s trophy arm piece)
I learned to keep my talents to myself,
Lest I threaten his Man Poet Throne
He said I wrote like a girly girl and that
What I needed was more rage
(That came along soon enough)
He said "just speak your mind and let
it all hang out"… eventually I did.
One day he died (just like that) but,
I had long since then said all my goodbyes…
All his cool friends came to grieve his loss
(Oh, what a bitch is "Death" not so cool at all)

While I marched in the streets pissed off as hell
I began to write rants filled with plenty of rage
And I thought he would be so proud of me now!
But this was all so very long ago…
I’ve come full circle since then,
And thanks to Rabbi Buddha Ginsberg,
I found my own Rimpoche…
I’ve learned how to stay still and shut off my head
I wish he (My Everything) had known how to do that...