i don't want an angel ...
i don't want an angel
an ethereal Material Girl
with something of an angle
wispy if not lispy
and wearing eyeshadow a little too blue
full of feathery words
that drop in clumps
across the mattress
in the afterglow . . .
and i don't want a Holy Mary
Mother of God
with her tightly-crossed legs
and a faraway look
in her eyes . . .
and i don't want a silver-screen goddess
with platinum hair
and a taste for diamonds
who always seems ready
for a John, Bobby, or Teddy
but who inevitably
and regrettably drowns
in a bubble bath of unkindness
that she unwittingly drew for herself . . .
and i don't want a princess promiscuous
who races from her boring life
in the fast lanes of Paris or Pakistan
and barters her once royal pussy
for a little leftover notoriety
until her hopelessness explodes
her lifelessness falters
and like a Slinky in a fashionable black dress
she ends crashing down the stairs
just before the winds of gossip unwind
and blow away maybe 50 birthdays or more
and though some might eulogize her
with the twisted metal frame
of a silly Candle In The Wind metaphor
the sad truth is
you can't blow out a candle
that was never really lit . . .
and i don't want an I Got You Babe
neither Bono or Ono
with her fingers of glue
that stick to my prick
while she closes the shutters
around my life . . .
and i don't want a Fat Bottomed Girl
with her diva disregard
and her sense of self-importance
that drags me along
like a Basset hound on a leash
in the fart lane of her
cross-stepping runway walk . . .
and i don't want a Joan Jett Blackheart
some self-indulgent maid
dressed in robes of the darkest night
whose self-loathing
taints the world with
a poison that infects
everything around her . . .
and i don't want a 10
or even an 8 or a 5
if attraction is calculation
then just think what that says
about masturbation . . .
and i don't want a sad-eyed Sister of Mercy
who remembers the war
and the wounds she nursed
with snowy-white sulfanilamide
or the erections she betrayed
with doses of saltpetre
repeatedly whispering
The Lord is my Shepherd
as she led desperate men like thirsty horses
to an empty trough
and expected them to drink . . .
and i don't want a femme-fatale
a Clytemnestra, Cleopatra or Messalina
a Delilah, Jezebel or Salome
a Mata Hari dancing for me
in the other room
calling to me in a too-manly voice
that begs me to surrender
the secrets of my passion
so that all that is me
might become only hers . . .
and i don't want a pubescent Lolita
with bright red lips
pursed over an even brighter red lollipop
as if to show me
how adept she is at the art of fellated sucking
posturing her every exaggerated pop and smack
into a four-way foreplay
relentlessly appealing to an inevitable unpeeling
of so fresh a forbidden fruit
that once tasted
sours in an instant . . .
and i don't want a fairytale casualty
a Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White
with her oh-so-immaculate complexion
her trilling voice
and a perfect lift to her B-cup breasts
all doomed it seems
to a suspiciously daunting magic charm
that sends her into some kind of paroxysm
ending in a deep and unyielding coma
that only a prince's kiss can undo
for i'm certainly no such enchanted prince
and kiss her if i might
i'm certain she would never awaken
even if i slipped her the tongue . . .
but most of all
most of all
yes, after all is said and done
i don't want to be alone
and so i am waiting
as patiently and honestly as i can
for you . . .
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