Am I Right Here?
Thing I like about reading Thom’s poems
is waiting for the woman,
then squirming while he undresses her
even though she comes on stage naked
because I know the guy’s married—
sweet Dolorosa or something along that line.
Isn’t that true?
Didn’t the guy tell us he’s married?
Did I dream that part?
The guy’s horny.
He’s the walking talking rhyming infuckingcarnation
of the male longing for our lady of perpetual cunt.
I aim in that direction,
I seek the compass rose,
the magnetic arrow—
my aim’s erratic but always zoetic,
it’s nothing noetic, it’s biotic, spasmodic.
Christ! When I settle on the erotic,
it’s a square-headed bolt. I’m seeking
the hummer of the male drive.
I’m cruising the freeway,
looking at carnage—
my psyche craves a wreck,
but that guy’s a peeper.
Even Thom’s manniquins are a veiled excuse
to ogle flesh while claiming concern
exposed to abuse.