TO JC/EMH
Gentlemen! On love affairs
No take, compared to yours, compares;
The worlds, though, on which each’s bears
Is yours, and yours;
Your education hardly squares
With my amors.
The world, through Erik’s Canon’s prism,
Is tinged with his charisma’s chrism.
Jack’s hard for Jill; and since Jack is him,
Jill’s hot for Jack;
No point, concludes his syllogism,
In hanging back.
The world, as limned in James’s inks, is
Comprised of male and female sphinxes.
However clear Jack thinks Jill thinks his,
Her mind’s unknown;
And Jack can’t tell but that she blinks his,
Or each, their own.
Now, Heck is right, in that address
Precipitates its own success;
And Carpenter, in that we guess
And are mistaken—
That romance is like blindfold chess
Against Alekhine.
So there’s sagacities aplenty
In your advice—of six-and-twenty;
But there’s no less duet-intent he
Than him you’d egg:
Who’d funk it, Erik, though it meant he
Could lay some leg,
Or, Carpenter, win back his ex’s
Heart and soul—the whole complexus.
For what the world, seen through my specs, is,
Is repetition;
The power to change, or even flex, is
A disposition
(I’d go so far as “constitution”)
With skew, not normal, distribution.
So Meghan, whose prosecution
Is half begun,
Would constitute one more volution
Of Meghan
Had I not died to pas de deux since,
And girls, once needful, had one use, since.
James claims rapport is worth the nuisance,
Heck says sex is;
But even that confessed translucence
Of my ex’s,
The more one’s vital level drops, is
The subject for a thanatopsis.
The poet’s heart her beauty stops is
A poet’s still;
He wants the poem—for that he swaps his
Deliberate chill.
True, dead, quoth Heck, is what a man
Cannot pronounce himself. Élan
Has got a different vital span
Than bodies, though;
It dies with them, but die it can
While on they go
For, posthumously, decades thence.
Then one has sex when sex presents;
And, contrary to common sense,
So unLawrentian
A posture, far from negligence,
Improves attention
And yields a girl a better lover:
When patients flatline and recover
They claim they felt themselves to hover
About the bed—
So one makes love, as if above her,
From overhead,
And is attached, like blimps on masts,
By one point only, while it lasts.
Which strikes you guys, with your brief pasts,
I know, as sick;
But that’s where one dead most contrasts
With two still quick,
Since all us dead still feel is pain,
Our options, that or Novocain.
I risked this round, sure I’d remain
Turned, less or more, off;
But numbness—how, I can’t explain—
At some point wore off,
And suddenly the whole shebang
Intenerates me, pang by pang.
What else, but brave the boomerang
My own hand threw?
I never really had the hang
Like you, and you,
Which it’s too late to retrofit.
Let Jack have Jill; let true hearts knit;
Let neither, how so hot, omit
A prophylactic:
And I recover, post-obit,
The ataractic.
Gentlemen! On love affairs
No take, compared to yours, compares;
The worlds, though, on which each’s bears
Is yours, and yours;
Your education hardly squares
With my amors.
The world, through Erik’s Canon’s prism,
Is tinged with his charisma’s chrism.
Jack’s hard for Jill; and since Jack is him,
Jill’s hot for Jack;
No point, concludes his syllogism,
In hanging back.
The world, as limned in James’s inks, is
Comprised of male and female sphinxes.
However clear Jack thinks Jill thinks his,
Her mind’s unknown;
And Jack can’t tell but that she blinks his,
Or each, their own.
Now, Heck is right, in that address
Precipitates its own success;
And Carpenter, in that we guess
And are mistaken—
That romance is like blindfold chess
Against Alekhine.
So there’s sagacities aplenty
In your advice—of six-and-twenty;
But there’s no less duet-intent he
Than him you’d egg:
Who’d funk it, Erik, though it meant he
Could lay some leg,
Or, Carpenter, win back his ex’s
Heart and soul—the whole complexus.
For what the world, seen through my specs, is,
Is repetition;
The power to change, or even flex, is
A disposition
(I’d go so far as “constitution”)
With skew, not normal, distribution.
So Meghan, whose prosecution
Is half begun,
Would constitute one more volution
Of Meghan
Had I not died to pas de deux since,
And girls, once needful, had one use, since.
James claims rapport is worth the nuisance,
Heck says sex is;
But even that confessed translucence
Of my ex’s,
The more one’s vital level drops, is
The subject for a thanatopsis.
The poet’s heart her beauty stops is
A poet’s still;
He wants the poem—for that he swaps his
Deliberate chill.
True, dead, quoth Heck, is what a man
Cannot pronounce himself. Élan
Has got a different vital span
Than bodies, though;
It dies with them, but die it can
While on they go
For, posthumously, decades thence.
Then one has sex when sex presents;
And, contrary to common sense,
So unLawrentian
A posture, far from negligence,
Improves attention
And yields a girl a better lover:
When patients flatline and recover
They claim they felt themselves to hover
About the bed—
So one makes love, as if above her,
From overhead,
And is attached, like blimps on masts,
By one point only, while it lasts.
Which strikes you guys, with your brief pasts,
I know, as sick;
But that’s where one dead most contrasts
With two still quick,
Since all us dead still feel is pain,
Our options, that or Novocain.
I risked this round, sure I’d remain
Turned, less or more, off;
But numbness—how, I can’t explain—
At some point wore off,
And suddenly the whole shebang
Intenerates me, pang by pang.
What else, but brave the boomerang
My own hand threw?
I never really had the hang
Like you, and you,
Which it’s too late to retrofit.
Let Jack have Jill; let true hearts knit;
Let neither, how so hot, omit
A prophylactic:
And I recover, post-obit,
The ataractic.
