Ruminations on Love & Fucking Poets by A.g. Synclair

Ruminations on Love & Fucking Poets

I knew this girl

when I had that blue Camaro

when I hung copper wire out my bedroom window

to pick up far off jazz stations on my shortwave

before sex

could kill you.

she called herself

a poet

so I fucked her

on the dirty bathroom floor

of a wood panelled fern bar

left over from the 1970′s.

the kind of place

where any dumb fucker could get laid

as long as you were clean

and bought Black Russians

for girls who would fuck guys

that would fuck girls like them.

which was better than not fucking

on a Saturday Night

when the world was cumming all over each other

and the only other option

was jerking off in the IHOP bathroom

or pancakes.

sometimes

I see her in front of the Haymarket

drinking coffee

selling homemade chapbooks

and broadsides

to old hippies.

someone told me

she got published

she got published

received a check for two-hundred dollars

and five contributor copies

of New Voices in Contemporary Poetry.

I’ve read her poetry
and just between you and me

I’m betting
New Voices in Contemporary Poetry

-like simple submission guidelines-

cumming together

and love

is only
an illusion.

© 2010 Ag Synclair

February, 1987 by A.g. Synclair

February, 1987

She had too many tattoos. Enormous, ugly Rorschach blots on her outer thighs, covering her back, her ass, her paunchy stomach. Sometimes it turned me off, all that ink covering her thick skin, but I fucked her anyway. She called the radio station one night. She told me she was twenty-four and home alone fingering herself to the sound of my voice. I ran the board, reading live commercials and weather forecasts during breaks from six incessant hours of syndicated right wing talk radio. We talked for a while on the studio hotline while I stacked carts for the morning guy. When my shift ended at six I drove crazy mad, high on pussy talk, to her dirty apartment near the skin district. We fucked until ten-thirty. Afterward she made chunky black coffee and smoked brown cigarettes that she’d stolen from the bodega downstairs. Her roommate ignored me, the way she did every Sunday morning after that. Sometimes, when Anna and I were in her tiny bedroom having sex, and those shitty tattoos threatened my erection, I closed my eyes and imagined her roommate walking in and watching us, watching Anna’s mouth as she sucked me off, watching me cum on Anna’s thick belly while she smiled at me from the doorway with both hands held tight between her legs. When I drove Anna to the hospital with stomach pains one morning, her roommate finally stopped ignoring me long enough to pull me away from the nurse’s station and eviscerate me with her fierce, hollow eyes, before informing me that Anna had contracted chlamydia, and that it might be wise to have myself checked out as well, as chlamydia is one of those “gift’s that keeps on giving”, and can lead to sterility in men. I never did have myself checked out. Later I found out Anna was only 17. I quit the overnight shift.

© 2009 A.g. Synclair