Wortley Clutterbuck

Poesía caliente

 

Bohemians

 

“If we offend, it is with our good will.”

—Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

 

The faucet drips, the ceiling leaks,

the heat’s been off a full two weeks;

the neighbors curse, the doorman stares —

but inspiration supplants cares.

 

The floorboards creak, mosquitoes bite,

the carpets stink, the neighbors fight;

the landlord fumes, the rent is due

but here’s the life we’re betrothed to.

 

Bohemians we are, forsooth 

and absinthe speaks to us the truth;

for art and love’s our paradise —

we live by snuff and die by dice.

 

The pawnshop scolds, the clergy sneers,

our debts leave our fam’lies in tears;

the pundits scoff, our sweethearts chide —

they don’t know hist’ry’s on our side.

 

The pantry’s barren, the ice-box vacant,

the phone’s gone dead, the duns’ impatient;

our fame is scant, the bills won’t cease —

the world might lose a masterpiece.

 

The bathroom reeks, the paper’s gone,

there’s no heirloom that’s left to pawn;

draw straws, it’s up to you, feller —

to sell out with a best-seller.

 

Bohemians we are, forsooth 

and absinthe speaks to us the truth;

the dilettantes sure have their nerve —

they’ll get the fate that they deserve.

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In Praise of Cuckolds

 

If man’s a cuckold born to be,

‘tis not his wife’s fault, verily;

if he can’t please her where it counts,

why be surprised when rivals pounce?;

if he’s enfeebled in the stones,

why penalize her pheromones?;

now, if the bloke can’t get it on,

I dare say do pass the baton;

if he’s a chap no one respects,

then, certes, he deserves no sex;

‘cause if he’s sapless, that’s on him—

la femme may need to please her quim;

if Guv’nor’s pusillanimous,

why suffer the dame’s clitoris?;

if hubbie’s pintle proves infirm,

why should madame forfeit all sperm?;

if master’s flagpole won’t enthuse,

then elsewhere strays the wife’s belle chose;

if signor cannot pitch a tent,

then elsewhere goes the wench’s queynte;

so, if the Captain comes up short,

blame not the new boats tacking port;

if husbands bungle their sex drive,

don’t ask their spouses not to swive;

hence, men that cuckolds are destined,

concede thy wife’s right to get pinned;

praise to cornutos everywhere

and wives who need relief down there!

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Procreation

 

It’s better if you volunteer —

I swear, you can enlist right here;

what’s good for nation’s good for you —

just find someone who wants to screw.

 

It don’t take talent, nor no skill —

don’t dodge the draft, eschew The Pill;

it’s ev’rybody’s sacred duty —

get knocked up getting some booty.

 

Now, youngsters may think it’s a drag,

that loss of sleep and boobs that sag;

but it’s your obligation to

conform to the social world-view.

 

First you’re pushing pelvises,

then pushing strollers’ what it is;

it’s like the Army, or Marines,

that push to propagate the genes.

 

It makes sure that you’ll never quit

that job that makes you feel like shit;

‘cause with a helpless mouth to feed,

you have to run with the stampede.

 

It gives you structure and purpose,

that filling of the uterus;

it starts off fun, all those hormones,

then home life’s got you by the stones.

 

Once, hip and all autonomous —

my, what we’ll trade for some congress;

you once were quite the bel-esprit

but now you are spoon-fed Disney.

 

So do it for the country’s weal —

we all go through the same ordeal;

it gives a chap standing in life —

so up the duff with your hot wife!

 

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“Not At This Address”

 

The woman that you left behind,

she was the best you’ll ever find;

it’s hard to say just where she went

but she’s no longer paying rent.

 

The woman that you knew so well,

her new address she wouldn’t tell;

that’s what you get for your neglect —

you’ll never again intersect.

 

You had a lot of adventures,

but now there’s new things she prefers;

you thought she’d always be right here 

but nothing stays the same each year.

 

The woman whom you reminisce

is someone you may come to miss;

but, right now, there is no avail

except “return to sender” mail.

 

The woman that you left behind —

she’s you, except she changed her mind;

the young lady with such caprice

grew up and won’t renew her lease.

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Wortley Clutterbuck is the composer of Poèmes Déplorables and Bedtime Stories, both available gratis at Soundcloud. He also busks poetry (literally) a block from where Thomas Jefferson bought and sold slaves in Charlottesville, Virginia. Recent text publications include Quadrant (Australia), Reed (USA) and (upcoming) Stand (UK).

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