Fucking Sestina

For Doug the Artist

So I want to write this fucking sestina
yeah I'm mad, it started at the Lovebomb
art show, dance, and human twister to amuse,
where I met this man who had promised me a river
but oh, the drama
talkin' to this chick in a red dress with face paint: men!

If only I could attract men
a little more predictable, as is this sestina.
1:27 in the morning can't stop thinking about the drama
that started when I dropped the first lovebomb,
a poem I wrote, flowed like a river
down to New Hampshire to amuse

this artist whom I thought was a muse.
Mere mortals don't walk among such men
as they paint pictures, a canvas river.
But who am I as I write this sestina?
A Goddess scorched by my own failed lovebomb
an explosion of such drama-

tical force: my fire, his water, our drama
of the Centuar and Crab, oh they do amuse.
Oh, they fucked like a lovebomb,
I should be used to this from such men.
Alas, I am young, hence I've chosen to write a sestina
to hold my deep emotion, a river

swelling to the overflow point, where the river
turns to waterfall in that falling drama
lost in the flow, how it just goes, like this sestina.
But I do so hope you are still amused?
How could I not be? Burned by men
I'll never take one home from the Lovebomb

again. His dick went off too soon, the love bombed
indeed, inside me, most unromantic lover, no river
flowing through me-oh yeah, most men
can't tap that orgasmic drama
of the female vagina. Am I to be so amused
by the rhythmic grind, a sestina

of sex and just as short as a sestina? The ticking lovebomb
is my only muse in this cold river
of life, and my only drama: I always choose the wrong men.

Catherin II, empress of Russia

"Do you know, it is not praise that does me good, but when men speak ill of me, then, with a noble asurance I say to myself, as I smile at them, 'Let us be revenged by proving them to be liars'."

Jenny Jones

"My husband and I used to fight about that night out with the guys, but it's not like I was doing it every night."

Monique Marvez

"Let's be honest, there's not a man in this world who couldn't be replaced by a winning lotto ticket and a water Pik."

ELIOT-Here we go...

I have to disclose that even though I instigated this blog - I am not the writer of this group। I am the queen of the comma and a breathlessly long sentence, not to mention I spell at about the level of a 7th grader. Thank god for spell check heh... (SOooo like a women to start out with a sort of apology-) Anyhoo - that outta the way I will embrace my Elliot and go balls to the walls here on out.... I do intend to add some journal sketches or art and I encourage all you talented bitches to do the same - That is, put um out there ladies - BALLS to the WAlls - YEEEE haaawwww ....

I pick Eliot as my nom de plume. Simply because it was the name of the first boy who made my heart pound. At eight, I could have never predicted that this heart would enlarge, shrink, skip, stop, implode, explode, and mend it self within the next twenty-five years. This loyal organ of mine has beat consistently while being carried and dragged through what seem like so many different lives. It started in a small wild flax haired girl, and grew within an emotionally retarded and sometimes reckless ski-bum. Some how I became a business women and mother... who in another life lost everything. To which my heart responded in stutters inside a confused recluse, pumping an embarrassing resivor of tears, before I found my self many years and lovers later as a strong independent hopeful social service slave and lazy artist. I wonder what the life and woman this heart will find itself in next...