You’ve got to swing your hips, now. Come on baby…
—The Locomotion/Larry Nored
WHERE MY THINGS
Wear my boots?
Track with my foots -
my feet.
Wear my gloves
with all their loves -
cleaning the tub.
Wear my underthings?
Clings
to you, darling…
Wear my pants
and the ants?
Do the “Locomotion.”
Wear my shirt?
Now that’s overt!
Hand it back!
Wear my socks
and their aftershocks -
hanging by a thread.
Wear my wig?
You’ll get a gig,
tower rappelling.
Wear my ring?
It’s on a string
with my honey’s.
You’ll wear his fists
flying from his wrists -
you’ll meet your Maker!
Seems like a year or two
Sweaty stench envelops you
Your eyes burn, your throat cracks
Your shirt is plastered to your back
Collar wilts, underthings cling
Wasps and hornets look to sting
Dizzy, your brain; your energy drained
Conversations short and strained
For this you yearned all winter long?
Come January ~ Same old Song
Uncovering your breasts
and waist,
you become half-eaten.
Disaffection
fathere a child.
The intimacy was
false. There were anger and theatrics.
The paternity suit falls
flat. The boundaries between
underthings are torn.
Painting the self-portrait
I had made a cut on my face
for you to bleed.
With a flick of hand
you wipe out the whole future.
Satish Verma