(a letter between writers)
You and I, we know that sex
is the thing, force that drives the green fuse
through Dylan Thomas' flower,
that drives the red fuse to our slick
and dirty hearts. Great art has a muse, gorgeous bitch. I worship,
I listen. I writ(h)e.
There is always a thief
at those gates. I told you I always manage to fuck
the wrong way and I do and you do, we
fuck wrong and it's fine if we wish to be damned
as long as we don't write about it.
My thesis director, kind enough to touch
my dirty manuscript, read those stories about sex and sale
(why haven't I grown up, yet?) He purses his lips.
I make him uncomfortable. He tells me to leave
all that business out.
What can I do but accede? I cannot make him read it.
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