Seems pretty simple.
You wanna get your teeth cleaned for free?
Date a dentist.
New addition on the house?
You should screw an architect.
But if you need someone to talk dirty to you in bed,
you better fuck a poet.
Because the average civilian is gonna hit you with something like,
“Oh, we are really having sex!”
While a poet might phrase that a little more like,
“Lovermuchmist, my where, my why, my how,
I wanna do you like all three dudes in Blue Man Group
because that’s what color my balls are right now.”
Sexy but clearly that is just a hypothetical
Because me, when I’m actually in the saddle,
I’m straight freestyling.
In fact, afterwards, even
when I review the videotape,
honestly, I can’t make out half the crap I’m saying.
And hey, I know you don’t always want the dirty talk.
That is great.
Fuck a mime!
Have a knockout time.
But that little creep is gonna spend the entire day
in his imaginary box
and he’s never gonna make it to your money spot
And you call me when you need the dirty talk.
And that does not make you nasty, baby —
That makes me nasty, baby.
And clearly, I’m okay with that.
And so are most poets, which is the point.
If you can’t stand firemen,
don’t light fires.
Can’t stand a sofa in your swimming pool?
Never rent your house out to rockstars.
And if, after tonight,
after seeing what a dope-ass lineup of poets
can do-do-do to a mic,
if you still cannot fathom the imagery and ecstasy of
eons or ions
spun into speech
from your actual spasms
by a soul, in a room,
with an immortal mouth
gnashing loudly for true love over loneliness
and moaning to the moon, the moon, the ever-loving moon
so that all the neighbors know it —
— if you can’t fathom that,
don’t fuck a poet.
transcribed by Tal Benisty