Give Me a Man
Posted: 13 Jun 2022, 05:08
v4:
" Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”
-—Sigmund Freud
Give Me a Man
who doesn't gag on his cigar
whenever a cheeky girl like me
brings up Freud. After all,
I've seen cigars with ribbons
tied on them as gifts, bought by wives
for their precious husbands
in airport stores, the ribbons
reminiscent of the pink ones
Casanova would tie
around his bulky condom,
his mistress of the evening
untying it daintily afterwards.
But my man? Karl insists
on “skinny dipping”
instead of dressing
his little fellow up.
He’s the kind of man who
—after a night of drinking—
joins in the running of the bulls
in honor of Saint Fermin
or some such nonsense
to prove his huevos
are larger than his rivals'.
Hell, living with him
reminds me of the dozens
of years I’ve invested
in writing, polishing
my manuscripts
as if they were lamps
with promises of genies inside.
What promise does Karl hold?
The years spent with him
have brought nothing
a pile of rejection letters
wouldn’t have brought me….
I have no stomach left
for the stench—
of the man or his cigars.
Tomorrow I’m leaving him.
It will take time for the air,
like my rancor, to clear—
to learn how to breathe
properly again.
v3:
" Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”
-—Sigmund Freud
Give Me a Man
who doesn't gag on his cigar
whenever a cheeky girl like me
brings up Freud. After all,
I've seen cigars with ribbons
tied on them as gifts, bought by wives
for their precious husbands
in airport stores, the ribbons
reminiscent of the pink ones
Casanova would tie
around his bulky condom,
his mistress of the evening
untying it daintily afterwards.
But my man? Karl insists
on “skinny dipping”
instead of dressing
his little fellow up.
He’s the kind of man who
—after a night of drinking—
joins in the running of the bulls
in honor of Saint Fermin
or some such nonsense.
Am I a fool to regret
what others resign
themselves to?
I swab myself with tissue.
Karl surfs the net.
v2:
" Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”
-—Sigmund Freud
Give Me a Man
who doesn't gag on his cigar
whenever a cheeky girl like me
brings up Freud. After all,
I've seen cigars with ribbons
tied on them as gifts, bought by wives
for their precious husbands
in airport stores, the ribbons
reminiscent of the pink ones
Casanova would tie
around his bulky condom,
his mistress of the evening
untying it daintily afterwards.
But my man? Karl insists
on “skinny dipping”
instead of dressing
his little fellow up.
He’s the kind of man who
—after a night of drinking—
joins in the running of the bulls
in honor of Saint Fermin
or some such nonsense
to prove his huevos
are larger than his rivals'.
His ego can't suffer shrinkage.
Yet I’ve stayed, not giving up
on this relationship.
Why? Maybe it’s cause
I’m like any goddamn poet,
dozens of years invested
in writing, polishing
my manuscripts
as if they were lamps
with genies waiting to be freed
—and still rejection letters
are piling up on my desk.
I don’t give up--on poems
or men--though my chances for love
may always be as slim
as poetry chapbooks.
Am I a fool to regret
what others resign
themselves to?
I swab myself with tissue.
Karl surfs the net.
v1:
" Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”
—Sigmund Freud
Give Me a Man
who doesn't gag on his cigar
whenever a cheeky girl like me
brings up Freud. After all,
I 've seen cigars with ribbons
tied on them as gifts, bought by wives
for their precious husbands
in airport stores, the ribbons
reminding me of the pink ribbon
that Casanova would tie
around his bulky condom,
his mistress of the evening
untying it daintily afterwards.
But my man? He insists
on “skinny dipping”
instead of dressing
his little fellow up.
He’s the kind of man who
—after a night of drinking—
joins in the running of the bulls
in honor of Saint Fermin
or some such nonsense
to prove his huevos
are bigger than his rivals'.
I have no stomach for the stench--
of the man or his cigars,
and him lying there afterwards
admiring his wobbly halos of smoke,
his horse having made it
to the finish line.
Tomorrow I'm leaving him.
It will take time for the air,
like my rancor, to clear,
for my lungs to fill like sails,
for my life to move forward.
Take a breath, I tell myself.
Learn how to breathe again.
" Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”
-—Sigmund Freud
Give Me a Man
who doesn't gag on his cigar
whenever a cheeky girl like me
brings up Freud. After all,
I've seen cigars with ribbons
tied on them as gifts, bought by wives
for their precious husbands
in airport stores, the ribbons
reminiscent of the pink ones
Casanova would tie
around his bulky condom,
his mistress of the evening
untying it daintily afterwards.
But my man? Karl insists
on “skinny dipping”
instead of dressing
his little fellow up.
He’s the kind of man who
—after a night of drinking—
joins in the running of the bulls
in honor of Saint Fermin
or some such nonsense
to prove his huevos
are larger than his rivals'.
Hell, living with him
reminds me of the dozens
of years I’ve invested
in writing, polishing
my manuscripts
as if they were lamps
with promises of genies inside.
What promise does Karl hold?
The years spent with him
have brought nothing
a pile of rejection letters
wouldn’t have brought me….
I have no stomach left
for the stench—
of the man or his cigars.
Tomorrow I’m leaving him.
It will take time for the air,
like my rancor, to clear—
to learn how to breathe
properly again.
v3:
" Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”
-—Sigmund Freud
Give Me a Man
who doesn't gag on his cigar
whenever a cheeky girl like me
brings up Freud. After all,
I've seen cigars with ribbons
tied on them as gifts, bought by wives
for their precious husbands
in airport stores, the ribbons
reminiscent of the pink ones
Casanova would tie
around his bulky condom,
his mistress of the evening
untying it daintily afterwards.
But my man? Karl insists
on “skinny dipping”
instead of dressing
his little fellow up.
He’s the kind of man who
—after a night of drinking—
joins in the running of the bulls
in honor of Saint Fermin
or some such nonsense.
Am I a fool to regret
what others resign
themselves to?
I swab myself with tissue.
Karl surfs the net.
v2:
" Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”
-—Sigmund Freud
Give Me a Man
who doesn't gag on his cigar
whenever a cheeky girl like me
brings up Freud. After all,
I've seen cigars with ribbons
tied on them as gifts, bought by wives
for their precious husbands
in airport stores, the ribbons
reminiscent of the pink ones
Casanova would tie
around his bulky condom,
his mistress of the evening
untying it daintily afterwards.
But my man? Karl insists
on “skinny dipping”
instead of dressing
his little fellow up.
He’s the kind of man who
—after a night of drinking—
joins in the running of the bulls
in honor of Saint Fermin
or some such nonsense
to prove his huevos
are larger than his rivals'.
His ego can't suffer shrinkage.
Yet I’ve stayed, not giving up
on this relationship.
Why? Maybe it’s cause
I’m like any goddamn poet,
dozens of years invested
in writing, polishing
my manuscripts
as if they were lamps
with genies waiting to be freed
—and still rejection letters
are piling up on my desk.
I don’t give up--on poems
or men--though my chances for love
may always be as slim
as poetry chapbooks.
Am I a fool to regret
what others resign
themselves to?
I swab myself with tissue.
Karl surfs the net.
v1:
" Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”
—Sigmund Freud
Give Me a Man
who doesn't gag on his cigar
whenever a cheeky girl like me
brings up Freud. After all,
I 've seen cigars with ribbons
tied on them as gifts, bought by wives
for their precious husbands
in airport stores, the ribbons
reminding me of the pink ribbon
that Casanova would tie
around his bulky condom,
his mistress of the evening
untying it daintily afterwards.
But my man? He insists
on “skinny dipping”
instead of dressing
his little fellow up.
He’s the kind of man who
—after a night of drinking—
joins in the running of the bulls
in honor of Saint Fermin
or some such nonsense
to prove his huevos
are bigger than his rivals'.
I have no stomach for the stench--
of the man or his cigars,
and him lying there afterwards
admiring his wobbly halos of smoke,
his horse having made it
to the finish line.
Tomorrow I'm leaving him.
It will take time for the air,
like my rancor, to clear,
for my lungs to fill like sails,
for my life to move forward.
Take a breath, I tell myself.
Learn how to breathe again.