No, No, No Apes!
At eight AM, the bus moves toward New York,
I, at the front, am reading. Now outside,
A wiry man, with tattoos down his side,
Who lashes out as if he were berserk,
Hitting the transport twice. What forceful work!
A sunny Saturday, so many daffodils,
A glowing abdomen, male guts on fire,
Not God’s work certainly but from a Sire,
Altered by drugs perhaps, or protein pills,
Pornography: a dreadful liquid spills.
Towards evening, I have played for hour and hour,
The violin, on park ways, calling birds,
Sweet gentle things, consider music words,
To see my practice blossom into flower,
Until the setting sun ignites each diamond tower.
More warm tonight than other April nights;
Traffic moves sluggish up and down Time Square,
Chock full with families and dusty hair,
Children returning from their boats and kites,
Crying and shimmying in spotted tights.
Milk pale in paint, girls sport the flag for many,
Red, white, and blue, and pantless: just one string,
To separate a shaking ass from everything,
Outside the toy store, great the pride of Fanny,
Who swirls her tits for married Chuck and Lenny!
Those buttocks come to play, alive and gay,
To moon the world, O anno domini!
Who brought gorilla girls to brew the tea?
The night is not the night if it’s not gray,
A million lustful men will quickly say.
I’ve seen the modest turn the other cheek,
Kids hide their faces, shy and mortified,
Because the dancers’ sex is not their bride,
Just a part inviting men to take a leak,
Comes uninvited, eats men with its beak.
No and no, I do not want to know how hot
A slinky doll can make it for a pot.
The concubines I did not love a lot,
Who flew out nude like some used bedroom cot,
Swayed, goading every eye to hit the dot.
Approaching nine, ice princess needs to leave,
So on a bus once more, I take a seat,
Under my violin. The man is meat,
Who moves his flour cock to grope my sieve.
His tempo’s off – what, fool? Gates of Kiev?
No, no, and no, I must three fingers point,
At the Satan stars of Saturday, ago,
Ape-ugly snakes, perchance their ancient foe,
Since hands of sinners don’t the saints anoint,
A tiger – shall I bite to free my toe.