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.