To Sarah, who asked for a funny, witty poem,and got this one instead, poor woman.
She graced the Whitmore College of Fine Arts
As the athletic captain of its Cheerleading Squad.
Her tall, well-proportioned body was crowned
By a face that endlessly inspired students
And staff alike to create representational art
That tragically served mostly as masturbatory aides,
For so few of us could resist indulging ourselves
In her beauty, being artists and all.
Her one discernible flaw as a human
Was that she aspired to no better life
Than to be the groupie of an artist,
For she had been raised up depraved
In the walled compound of an Indiana cult
Of transplanted Portuguese finger-painters
To think women naturally fulfilled themselves
Only by their services to men.
I alone dared to depart from mere representations
Of her by creating conjectural interpretations
Of her vagina as the cauldrons of volcanoes
Orgasmically exploding in joy.
Naturally, she recognized in me
An important contemporary master
And wanted nothing more than to reward me
With the friendship of her upper thighs.
I teasingly held her off in order
To turn her kinky with mounting desire
Until one night we slaked our lusts
Using only a feather duster,
A toilet bowl plunger, two thorny roses,
A length of silk rope, an electric
Train transformer, a bible (King James),
A goat outfit, and to bring us to orgasm,
A compact car with 27 circus clowns.
It was all under-kill, of course,
But I did not want to alarm her
About what was in store for us next,
And it sufficed for our first time.
Yet nothing I could say
Could persuade her to use birth control
For the Portuguese fathers had preached
Lies that the pills would gradually
Alter her DNA, turning her at last
Into a polka dotted midget with a lust
To have her way with rabbits.
Of course, I had to dump her
For what artist can work in a studio
Strewn with diapers and the toys
Of a dozen demented children?
Nevertheless I ethically
Softened the impact
Of my abandonment
By leaving her in the care
Of the 27 clowns.