She was a convent schoolgirl / He smoked as he walked,
They shared a yellow room where nobody talked.
It makes less noise putting them on speaker;
They’re so loud when they think nobody can hear them.
Talking about their bodies, the Prince Female mooned
Over him, her tires squealing like a piglet.
Stroking his beard, he dreamed of solitude
In the novels of the romantics.
But she, in a trance of neediness, with
Full throbbing sexual desire, could no
Longer afford the warm, acidified silence;
He would know the spell cast by women.
She wrapped her tentacles around him,
Like a black and white monster in uniform,
Collecting evidence of his desire while
His mind was drifting out to sea.
Her longing was forged with molten swords,
His lavender heart the heart of her problem,
His language of criticism crumbling before her
Like the bridges of California.
Together they roiled like the swirling seas,
Hiding their egos under the bed as the
Long white strips of her vision overwhelmed her,
Like being trampled under the wheel of an oxcart.
At last, sucking in his gut, the Pigeon King
Surveyed the convent schoolgirl, the
Prince Female; then he bawled for twenty minutes,
Before boarding a smuggler’s raft:
Playing the saxophone and shoplifting
Books and luxurious food.