Every morning after breakfast I sat down to write my
allotment of erotica. One morning I typed: "There was a Hungarian
adventurer ..." I gave him many advantages: beauty,
elegance, grace, charm, the talents of an actor, knowledge of
many tongues, a genius for intrigue, a genius for extricating
himself from difficulties, and a genius for avoiding permanence
Another telephone call: "The old man is pleased. Concentrate on
the sex. Leave out the poetry."
Delta of Venus
THE TYPESET OF ANAIS
The keys almost grip these strange, erotic fingertips,
acquiescing to each thrust of lewd composition.
This tap-tapping denies any prelude, rushes conversation
towards the climax. I’ve become a dime-a-dance girl,
my lines sway, small seductions that tease anonymous.
No poetry, no mystique, his demands undermine true desire,
reducing rapture to the merely crude and I pound out lust
as mechanical as a carriage return. The ribbon emits an O
onto the page, so white, so virginal, but receptive to the
bondage of the guide. The copulation goes on all night long,
different positions, situations, locations and my typewriter
sets the rhythm, fast and hard, strokes that seem to come
from another, a faceless lover who letterpresses propriety
into submission, long before the page is, finally, released.
*Anais Nin was one of several writers during the forties who were paid a dollar per page of erotica by a mysterious 'collector.' Her writing is provocative, sumptuous and highly literary. For a photo of Anais Nin at her typewriter, please click the about this poem link, if you are able.
Written April 18, 2013