tagErotic PoetryBreathless and Other Poems

Breathless and Other Poems

byCal Y. Pygia©

BREATHLESS

The airplane’s descent
over cowboy dreamlands
brings the band; they walk
from beneath the belly
as if they were Wyatt, Doc,
Morgan, and Virgil
at the O. K. Corral,
although they are cowgirls
and beautiful, of face and form
no less than of voice,
the girl next door times four,
and the biker gang doesn’t stand
a chance against the ladies’
violins and guitars--
their silhouettes against
the canvas wall
of the folding tent
leave me breathless.

BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY

Your dark hair,
high cheekbones,
come-hither smiles,
and the sheer femininity
of you
harden my resolve,
making my manhood
jut
from my crotch,
despite the womanly ways
of my ladyboy breasts,
buttocks, and thighs.

You make me feel fortunate
again
to be a transsexual,
transcendent
to sex and gender,
and twice as hopeful
of getting inside your body
and your mind by any means
necessary
or permissible.

There must have been a hundred
thousand in the field
today, but your eyes fell
on me
exclusively; I know,
because I felt the heat
enflame my soul, and the hair
stood erect upon the nape
of my neck,
before it burned.

THANKS, BUT NO THANKS

You can’t fuck me
with just your eyes
anymore;
I want all of you,
your breasts and balls
no less than your cock
and woman’s ass;
I don’t want to be
just a possibility
like another disposable
unfortunate faggot character
in a pathetic John Rechy novel
stained with cum,
someone to whom you say
goodbye as soon as you
declare your love for me,
so, thanks, dear, but no
thanks; I will not fuck you
anymore, with just my eyes.

VALKYRIE

Do you think my poems
too sentimental today?
That’s apt to happen
when I let the Corrs
and the Beatles play,
but I love their lady looks
and their ladyboy ways,
although, sooner or later,
I have to hear the madness
of a Morrison or the pathos
of a Joplin, the same
as astronomers hope
to see a falling star
and we lesser mortals watch
a car chase, hoping to see
a Valkyrie descend from
the cold northern skies
in search of the valiant dead.

TOE TO TOE AND HEEL TO HEEL

High-heeled shoes,
toe to toe
and heel to heel,
shown in profile, form
a uterus, complete
with fallopian tubes
and ovaries, which is why,
when you wear them
upon your petite feet,
I worship these icons
of the femininity
and fertility of You.

MANAGED CARE

Bedfast fish
dream of flying fish;
their headboards
are decorated with
phallic fish,
their mattresses
with wet spots,
the products
of their dreams.
Would you rather be
the dreamer or the dream?
I think it all depends
on whose name is on
the label and what costume
the listeners wear
that day.

When you listen
to music, do the notes
take the forms
of bees or birds
or are they melons
to be cut like so much wood,
and do they sting or sing?
I think it all depends
on whose name is on
the label and what costume
the listeners wear
that day.

Edgar Allan Poe said
that the death
of a beautiful woman
is the most poetical
topic in the world.
Does his opinion mark him
as a romantic
or a misogynist?
I think it all depends
on whose name is on
the label and what costume
the listeners wear
that day.

The masked clown
in the silk top hat
and the polka dot bow
tie, attempting tea--
is he the swan
that was the creamer?
And why is the teapot
itself a mountain now
of clouds and steam,
and now a ship at sea,
and now a shape cut out
in pinewood
by a jigsaw blade?
I think it all depends
on whose name is on
the label and what costume
the listeners wear
that day.

Lidless gimlet eyes;
electric eyebrows;
a complexion gone green
with envy--
are the jealous among us
lizards or just obscene?
I think it all depends
on whose name is on
the label and what costume
the listeners wear
that day.

Effacement and dilation,
pressure on the rectum,
pushing and pushing,
harder than she’s ever
pushed before,
the coach-become-cheerleader
chanting, as if she weren’t
already pushing hard,
“Push! Push! Push!”
Pressure on the perineum
like never, ever before,
and it’s coming, sliding
down, down, down--
until it slips back again,
and the coach demands,
“Push! Push! Push!”
The hand in the glove,
looking alien and weird,
reaches with forceps,
and the burning comes
and the stretching
and the crowning moment
of the head and shoulders
and the crying begins.
Is she insane to have done it
and to want to do it
yet again?
I think it all depends
on whose name is on
the label and what costume
the listeners wear
that day.

Report Story

byCal Y. Pygia© 0 comments/ 5196 views/ 0 favorites

Share the love

Report a Bug

1 Pages:1

Please Rate This Submission:

Please Rate This Submission:

  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
Please wait

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar:

   Cancel