Rich Ives
Rich Ives



Gigolo’s Lament


Suddenly I’ve been Chicagoed by
a football jersey there were
no soap racks that have never been
spillage no negotiations but too many
towelwise following the episode with
ornaments she had mated

known to harbor lap dogs
and wet sheets you navigate upstream
wrapped tight as the old
reversed in the digestive tract
beneath my bed come out
I know there are frogs
   
their train’s unpunctuated
chapter of A
still fits in
this wound there’s  
the language of love I tried  
the cabin door I tried

in the deep Hungarian evening
and spoke only of weather
out of its stiff cold jacket
of lesser distinctions
singing tragic historical ballads
is this what you meant by materialism
 
sometimes I’ve been happier sometimes
a couple of benches pipes and
mobsters with cartoon lunch pails for  
I invested in the cowl of your fat
boy kneeling smooth  
in cave satin that boy stumped  
       
back like a cattle bird with  
a list of eligible quadrupeds  
an assortment of tans so deep  
to follow but O the elder
lantern of hubby’s shark
malingerer says eat me out

that gabbling cluster of snail cocktails  
muffing with his khaki-colored
propane his calm-as-a-pear
proposals his insect calls and all
in a tumbler that made you feel
he stashed the cash                            
his chihuahua wearing
legends of wandering hotels
convicted of negligence no
tourists boating about threadbare
the ventriloquists’ lawn and garden
concepts of individuality

she wished to marry the whirlpool
because the young ones are sometimes
quotations of stale wind
I can hear rising moles whisper
come out sleepy herons
beneath my shoes

litany travels the first
to the last drone of Z and
the broken thimble used to mend
nothing more wretched than
a bearskin pegged to
a rich satin fear fallen fast

I tried ancient statues
I tried Perhaps and leaned and fell
like an assortment
seemed to mill about aimlessly
in borrowed falsetto
plump pink chubby

foreign as flysex I banished
cinderblocks and
a big thick audience of two
startled thighs even the
already heavily involved
rode her money-infested

camels in the bedchamber
charred palm leaves and
my imagination was embarrassed
the great mysterious shadow
feast the pretentious intellectual
with enough juice for Santa Claus

stuffed in a sheepdog’s bedraggled
salve smelling of sulfur and
singing-out-of-his-asshole
startalk his set of teeth
quaintly superior he says
it’s your lapwife needs walking




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