Not yet a student of
fastidious geisha pillow talk,
or subtle sticky desert nights
on perfumed rugs, or tendril limbs
of Hindu gods exposing how
to shag a thousand ways in stone,
or chandeliers’ riggish janglings
in Paris, Petersburg, nor yet
multiple Califoraian kicks ...
I’m shown, by Neck Ends, in a dock canteen,
the secret of the Biggest Thrill:
a fly, he mimes, with wings wrenched off,
walking his swollen cock’s bell-end.
Share on TwitterShare on FacebookShareEmailPrint
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.
