Poetry for the Curious across the Religious Spectrum





                                                          L. Freud


This comely wench reclines on vast organic couch, on

Crouch,  on crotch, a splay of corporeal presence that imbibes an


Atavistic beauty.

Whence kommt das charmer?

We note the job description,

For such as she superintends ALL benefit, all gain,

all adiposity, ALL adiposition.


Whence did you glean excrescence, dearest Lucian?

What deeply pocketed sire has forked the cash?

Such speculate, such bubble in recession?

Some hardy Turk?  And where could progenitor truly lurk?

This individuation like none other--who would bother?

Boon of bone fingers grasp pendulous great boob with massive dignity--

And the whole is UDDER,

Unspeakably utter, a vast incredulous mother's darling daughter.

No space, no place, no locus for obverse--no laughter that Freud's after,

Rather terrain, each crease a moment, monument,

Comment, LORDLY lard--

From swell to swollen, cosmos, lip to slit.

Simply fillip measured EONS in the execution, weird labile STASIS

In the stealth,

As WE such wealth, remember, ponder--quantity, quantum,


Tread labyrinth, existence, surd--intrude on exudation.


ALL mode erodes,

A megaton of flab--and dare one OINK?

Ach what a waste, YOUR maiden's THIN?


For curves as such an Imam shelled out 33-odd millions to adorn 

His DEN.





xi          SLEEPING NUDE          1980



Child of repose, her geometrics stun.

There are no angles that her angles shun.

She is asleep, and yet the world

Sleeps.  Even the headdress curled


Against her brow is charm of form.

Sun graces her somnolence, warm,

A face that angels would apprise

In jealous splendor.  Lullabies


Cannot reach her.  She is sound

In slumber.  The checkered board is bound

By the same symmetry.  Cubes exude

In jagged even space some rude


Gesture of contrition.

The fault is probably their ambition.

Nothing can match or pale her angles,

Cloven thighs and inward tangles.


Her innocent rump adorns a pillow,

Somber in its motion, yellow.

A knee is shadowed on the rose bench

Which holds this sleeping wench


Where we could grip if luck were such.

This girl eludes our will to touch.

Just for a taste of that pale skin

We’d thrust OUR daughters into sin.


And yet she sleeps, heedless of our torment.

A billion masters envy her this moment,

Balthus who betters Balthus, lilt and form.

A taste of such innocence would warm


A devil, chill in spite and rage.

This girl will rule all masters into age,

Will rule our quest for powers, riches,

Fame, and all that itch is.


Faustus would drop his calling for her lips,

Abandon wisdom for the time she grips.

And yet our quest is hopeless, who would

Earn her praise, her smile, could


Praise be given to the thief of time—

A sleep, a yawn, and then divine

Madness, willing a shudder to her thighs.

NO trick of ours could tempt her eyes


More than a flicker, yawn.

She sleeps eternal.  Age moves on.

Age shudders.  It is caught by such as she.

She need not open eyes to see


The poverty of vision as it’s bent

To secular ambition, cant.

We’d feel your flesh and leave you spoiled.

Such is the wisdom that would make you old.


Such is the wisdom that would make you free.

NO mortal fashioned such as thee,

Your cleft, your breasts, your soft repose.

All beauty ends.  Yours softly grows.






xii          UNTITLED          1981-82



On the other hand, what can we make

Of this trickster, no more than twelve,

Striding with the pale blue towel

Like Pavarotti,


Or Balthus, at eighty, who fashioned her?

Even the table apes her legs,

The graceful ungainly arc

That pushes toward some future.


Is it his or ours?  The hour’s

Late for manunkind.

We lay awake nights planning

Our detonations.


This lilt of flesh would mirror

Our frustrations—we

Who are caught in time, time’s grip,

Wishing for even the towel’s


Proximity to blazing youth

In this lush figuration.

Loop of the belly, trace of navel,

Where are you going,


Cain or Abel?  What can SHE see

Beyond the open door

Or in her heart?  No wail

Could startle such innocence,


Triumph of one young tart

Over all our petty

Little decadence, our rage to scream

That youth itself


Were more obscene

That we might trace it.

No willing makes us face it.

We are caught


In lust, decision.

We who would buy this planet

With our savings bonds

Or deferred holdings,


How ripe are we for this

Girl’s scoldings, how ripe are we

For sin?

Sadly enough we can’t begin.


Balthus, old snicker of a mind,

Poises above

This wreckage and its ravings.

He offers simply a child’s flesh


And then withholds it.

No Billy Graham apostle

Has the grace

That scolds it.  Winds like her hand about a towel


Our pale ambition.

SHE carries all she needs.

Our universe

Recoils toward vague contrition.






                                                 R. Maxwell

This figure, this corpus,  body, “I” have eaten.

Perhaps billions, that self more male than


Mine.  And dark descends, a lilt, hair-waft,

Bikini black, ripple to torso, striate of


Biceps, sculpted forearms, hands at either

Edge, framing that welt, pectoral-breasts,


The slightest [comely!] bulk of abdomen—

No maiden this, and yet a sprite, Platonic form


Or such, giving full lie to death and worm.

Eyes lick this aquatic dancer, sylph, tri-sexual-


Construct.  One cannot rape, ocular-even, Torres

41, such rapt perfection.  Form FENDS off ache.


Odd nymph would break all being. Such is far

More than seeing.  Bleeds-needs the shame I’m


Fleeing.  Even taut tendons in her neck must

Mock poetic gift—the LIFT of Dara Torres.


Androgynous?  There is more heft than even

Libido adhering to this paean to physique.


OUR flesh is weak.  Eyes’ knees needs buckle

To attend this maiden—and poet’s aching!


Soul weeps this gain eternal.  Flesh burns.

All lyric wilts that'd dare eclipse soul’s worms.


Today I’m 68?  Never this young, this aged.

Eyes flick the finger--that’d turn-a-page IT?



 {{Johanna, 1969}}








Lips like rain,


Autumn leaves like lilacs settling down


Over your fine fair hair—


You are alive,

And my soul withers with every flower

Of your breath.


You are the death of my pain.


Silent, snowy silent silk, your flesh is fresh

With my every moment,

Fingering desire—


You are the fire of my ice.


Alive like sleep, your steep silence

Broods like forever in every curious syllable

Of your sigh—


You are my why.