November

Let's talk about sports, let's talk about us
Let's talk about sex, now don't make a fuss
It won't hurt to just talk about it, will it?
Wait! See that bug? Think I'll kill it.
There! No, I missed it. Oh well, now where...?
Oh, yes, I was about to comment on your long golden hair
And how it splays across your shoulders, so creamy and soft
And then, those lips, of which I've dreamt so oft-
en. How I'd love to kiss them, to hold you in my -
What? No, no, it rhymed. The "en" was on the other line
But it doesn't matter, really, these are post-modern days
And anything goes, thus comes my malaise
There used to be rules to live by, structures to hold onto
Now there's nothing, that's why I want to
Cling to you like Que Queg's coffin in Moby Dick
(Maybe that's too obscure, perhaps I'd better stick
To post-modern references and pop culture allusions
And pander to the masses to avoid these confusions)
At any rate, I digress, and this poem's become a mess
But, then, it reflects where I am without you, I guess
A rambling wreck, the unknown specimen tossed in the centrifuge
Flying apart, grasping for something, some sort of refuge
And that's you, I'm afraid. Hold me, kiss me, just let me know
For one instant, one moment, that I'm loved