Vegetarian Sex
July 8 2008



“This film contains scenes of violence,
explicit language,
and raw sex.”

As much come-on as caution
I suspect.
And then I tried to picture it;
raw sex, that is
as opposed to the other kind
— perhaps par-boiled, smoked, or deep-fried?

Explicit language, I like;
because after awhile
a poet gets sick and tired
of metaphor and ambiguity,
and could use some good old Anglo-Saxon certainties.

Violence, though, makes me squirm,
like some cheap voyeur
with no concern for consequence
— just one clever edit
and all the severed and dead
neatly vanish.




But no vegetarian sex,
and no over-cooked meat
dry and grey and tasteless.

I want steak tartarre
I want red and dripping,
a glistening well-marbled slab.

I want it warm and wet
the carnal scent
of flesh
— that little edge of danger
that feels transgressive on the tongue.

I want the top cut,
the soft underbelly, underdone.
Like raw oysters, freshly shucked
in hot sauce or mustard
— all tongue, no teeth,
so salty-sweet, and slippery.

I want it raw, and unprocessed
unschooled and unrepressed
— like pure animal sex,
all free-roaming lust.

Dirty, messy, smelly sex
to remind us that we’re mortal
and made of flesh and blood.
No edits, no dubs;
the director’s final cut.