BARNACLED ROSETTES
Nick Herbert
Baby, the sight of your barnacled rosettes
Drives me wild
Gives me the irresistable urge
To push my rigid eyestalks up your breeding tunnel.
O baby, please let me sample your oestral juices
With this chemotaxic proboscis.
I wanna sequence the neuropeptides
Dripping from your metatarsal glands.
Honey, of course I respect you.
Here, lick my sternum:
The taste of my thoracic mucus
Should tell you
All you need to know
About my intentions.
Satisfied, love?
Now can I slide my feeding tube
Down your slippery ovarian trough?
O baby, you taste so good
Makes me wanna do
Something perverse to you with my mouth.
With my lips and tongue
I wanna excite our circumambient nutrient fluid
And stimulate your lovely otic organs.
Yes, I'm scared too.
Can you taste it
In my mucus?
Baby I know
You're a nice tweezle
Not a naughty urkalack
But when you feel my vibrations
I'd like you to do it back.
Yes, of course I respect you
Honey, read my mucus.
I know it's physically near impossible;
These parts evolved for other works.
I know it's an abomination;
It's forbidden by the church.
I know it's an outrage;
It's outlawed by the state.
But you and I, let's do it, love
Let's lingui-aurally communicate.
Honey, don't walk
Let's talk.
HYMN TO HER (for Sharma)
O much-married, meat-is-murder, menopausal mamma from Missoula
I wanna m-mail you monthly
Monstrous mounds of Maui moonlight.
O glorious, good-hearted, green-thumbed goddess from Los Gatos
I'm gonna g-mail you in June
Eight imperial gallons of gelatinous genital goo.
O eternal editor, erotic, erratic, Esalen-educated East Village Eve
I eagerly e-mail you each weekend
Eleven inches of my almost erect electric eel
To shock you into endless eddies of ecstasy.
O female executive, ex-con, ex-wife
O loco wench from Waco, Texas
I wanna express x-mail you
Sixty-six sexy French postcards
That the US Postal Service won't touch:
Could give us exciting ideas--
Explosive ideas much too extreme for x-mail.
O overweight, overworked, overtly ovulating Oberlin, Ohio one-night stand
I o-mailed you on this October moon
The ocean
Wrapped in oyster-colored ribbon, to overjoy your ovaries
Your olfactory glands, your oily oyster-colored openings.
O planet-perambulating pinup, pantheistic, persnickety Philadelphia PhD
I'm p-mailing you periodically
A pair of Pope-anointed, pagan-blessed purple panties
Personally empowered to grant your every pelvic wish.
O Sherman-smoking, semen-shunning, sassy Seattle sex scientist
I solemnly sent you in Sunday's s-mail
Sixty-seven billion soy-soaked Nobel-Prize spermatozoa
For your utopian breeding experiments
Or Saturday's spaghetti sauce: your choice, sister.
O divorced, depressed, delicious Divisadero Street double-D dumpling
I d-mail you daily
A Denver sandwich, dill pickles, deep-fried squid
Dark-chocolate fudge, devil's-food cake and Turkish delight
Thru the magic of d-waves, my darling
I deliver you a virtual delicatessan.
O A-cupped ace cook, angel-lipped Atherton acidhead
I a-mail you annually
An ark of apples from Eve's garden
May you discover thru your tongue
What knowledge actually tastes like.
O thigh-ticklish, tender-hearted, tap-dancing tai-chi teacher from Taos
Each Tuesday eve I teasingly t-mail you
Twenty-three tubs of transcendental theological transmission fluid
That's hot Zeus juice, toots, and slippery goddess elixir too
When spiritual overhaul time comes round
You'll be twice-born and thankful you plugged in
To my titanic tube of t-mail.
O brainy, brown-eyed, Buddhist bondage whore from Berkeley
I belatedly b-mail you
The Blessed Virgin Mary, the Babe from Bethlehem
Holy baptism, benediction, the Bread, The Body and the Blood
All the good parts from my Catholic boyhood
I b-mail to you, my brave and sacred prostitute.
O lazy, lascivious, lactating Leo from L.A.
I leisurely, longingly l-mail you
Love
Love in every form I can think of
Love in every form I can get away with
Love in every form there is.
I use audio, video, radio, rodeo
Dream waves and astral tattoos
Etheric vibrations, deep space oscillations
To make some impression on you.
Honey, I got rope burns on my cranium
Spine fused by astral arcs
Calluses on my testicles
And stretch marks round my heart
No regrets, dear, I learned plenty
Tho I didn't find the Grail
But one thing I hafta ask ya, love:
"When ya gonna answer your mail?"
� 2002 Nick Herbert
Nick Herbert is an industrial and academic physicist and is the author of
"Quantum Reality", "Faster Than Light" and "Elemental Mind". He is
currently devising the Next Big Science which he calls Quantum Tantra and
is said to be a contender for this year's Nobel Peace Prize. See
http://members.cruzio.com/~quanta/nobel.html
Email: [email protected]
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