Why are my many hats at the laundry, Bossy?  Women

   mutate, dominate, understand and abide me.

This is a quid pro quo non sequitur to my parent's generation.

   Forget magic and convince you to fight servitude?

You listen to Antiope, formerly of Nycteus, and you

   spar with the referee and play your harmonica loudly on the bus

and when you became too light for most of us I sat down.

   Cynthia, no men are not ill if they have their sight.

We need them, if only to ferret out and collate The Figures.

   During inferiority you and I dice turnips and eat.

But my past has been formed and I'm extremely furious.

   Sod my aura, Bossy!  Give me back the Perrier that you and I ate

with its ingenious and many colors (art by Degas).  And, why!

   I'll bet that the dice you used were gaudy and below tacky.

I contend it is magic and you say that we are alone in love,

   that I should forget magic and accept your faults in good faith,

that I shouldn't fear and that the sky is not an insane woman

   and that you owe me no words because you are the hostess.

But kissing is a pretty high commitment Cynthia, kissing you

   at least;  it is almost a crime, a bad memory.

And you, Cynthia, always come as you lay with irate women.

   The difference:  You don't know that you are a lemon caress.

No one has your contentment, not a Swiss or a Flemish heiress.

   And quick! come and lap at your saucer, the quality is unique.

Not that you are a gratuitous temptress Cynthia, damn no!

   But when you come and rap incessantly at my door of love

I try not to pray.  Men eat supper when they're sick, I adore you.

   After I'm sick let's kiss quickly while I ask if you and I are in. 

To poem, Fifth

Back to Cynthia, This Book Gave Me Mono Page

Back to Writing Page