I can't draw at the Conference on Love.
Bold ink slashes help me hide,
But a mere sketchpad on my thigh
won't do. I need a desk as wide
as akimbo, plus good light, and I
can't take the gawkers. Too damn shy
for this Conference on Love.
2: Simple Joy
A slender girl stands up to speak.
Eagle nose, owl-thoughtful eyes,
hair one long ink sweep.
She passes out a chart but fears
she made too few. Now, I'm a row
back, and yet she beams at me,
handing me the first!
Paperflirt. My silent type!
Sun blooms in my belly to purr.
"The X axis plots my daily joy,"
says she, "and my social life's on Y."
Wobbless curve, correlation clean!
Why, she's as simple as me!
Does she feel vulnerable too?
Cunning adult humanity
can jerk autistic simple me
around on love-is-a-leash!
Yet joy's so easy for owls to reach.
Simplicity's a blessingcurse. So
date the owl! We could do worse.
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But a twentyish blonde, her air feline,
Now stands. From the East flew in.
She says "I can't talk freely even
at the Conference on Love. See,
my professor flew out with me--
he's among you, listening. Not
that he stalks me exactly, but--"
I empathize: in the bar today
I got hovered by a smitten gay
though I told him flat
"you're not my type."
This unrequited love is tripe.
So I'd believe her male-drool tale
But her bare-belly body belies:
legs so nude, panties red,
and from her open blouse of gauze
peer breasts like lidded eyes.
Sensual cat in miaow-heat.
Silent fuck-me cries.
Professor: "Here I am." He strides
out from a column stage right.
He's in swimbriefs silvertight,
naught else. Thews oiled and buffed,
A Rocky Horror treat!
Struts and poses round Feline
and talks of love--to us, not her,
Cleverly never flirts overt.
Stresses to impress! (Just who?)
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He swells, he fills her allotted slot.
What a dick. A time-rapist! (You
see these at Conferences a lot.)
She reddens in slow burn. Oh how
she longs to celebrity-roast
Professor Publicity Pig!
She roars at last and dives, collars
scholar-thigh and bites, her teeth
pit-bull sunk. He staggercreeps
offstage slow. Her squirming caramel
torso trails. Tan haunches flail.
Her left hand claws that silver tush,
right's on her own bare breasts:
her shirt veiled them, more or less,
upright; but nipple now, and blush.
It's sexy, in an awful way,
like the worst blowjob in herstory,
onstage at Love '08. I try
to stifle my laugh as He and She
curse and pose and flail.
Even the shy chart-girl Joy
owl-giggles. O heartless we!
Can't ebb the laughter-wave,
can't farce back the sea.
So who harasséd whom? Aw,
he's a pontificatin' guy,
but she clung to him, jaw
sunk in his hunk-thigh.
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