Drafts: The Urge, The Burden, And The Aftermath.

This the 4th draft. By this point I don't feel I need to keep retyping each draft on the typewriter because the first and third sections are so nearly stabilized--most of their changes will be single words or lines being swapped out. That would make for a lot of unnecessary typing, I think.

As has been the case since just about the beginning, the second section is what's giving me the most trouble. It really pisses me off sometimes, but it's come along--further and further with each draft. Still, be wary as you read it: It's not done yet. Certainly not in the way the first and third sections feel.

At this point, I really want to get things [feeling?] balanced. I know the second section is unsightly and ungainly, but I'm still trying to work it out. Frankly, I think it's seriously important to the rest of the poem or [I hope] I wouldn't have so stubbornly stuck by it at all.

I. The Urge

This strange, animal energy,

—This deep, hard need to fuck—

An enthousiasmos so

Primal & possessive

Heaves me, heedless & heady.

I cannot hold, cannot see,

And cannot—would not—stop it.

Sometimes it just seizes me,

My eyes, my lips, my body,

Hands and dick and legs and ass,

And chest and neck and back,

These things that crave

The sureness of another

In my arms and against me.

Sinew flexed and ready now

To seize and seize and seize.

And I come crashing headlong

Into you between bedsheets,

No longer my own in the night,

Seized as much as seizing you,

Mouth-to-mouth and bone-to-bone

Body alongside body,

Point-to-point and parallel.

I may not know whence it comes,

Nor whither it will soon go,

But you are here now before me

And its object, its treasure;

I want you now

—And I will have you.

II. The Burden

Hard to say for sure((...))

When we get so damn horny.

O, but the doubts we will commit, the demands for justification,

When this ought (to) be so wondrous,

So easy.

Why must we fight to make sex something beautiful/wonderful

Why must fun take so much effort?

Where all (that) it means to be alive,

To be human, to be animal,

Comes together in oblivious union,

There, the terrible truth of knowing waits,

Lurks the burden

Of human ideation and our animal heritage.

And yet it all ends up so much less high flown.

Why must we think

It's too much to bear sometimes,

When even basest passions

Are questioned, named, and judged,

--gangbangs and love making

And one night stands

With strings attached or otherwise--

Why must something so simple

Become so complicated

But how much hotter our passions burn

When fueled with thoughts of love.

How much more eager and willful we become

When we call it love--or think we can--

When we feel wanted, when we feel grateful,

When we want to believe, in Love and Truth,

In goods and bads and etiquette.

But no less am I a man or mammal

Nor any more can I keep that urge in check,

Than can I always claim such altruisms as love,

Such verities of the soul;

For I do not know if I love you

—Or just want you—

Nor do I know if I always will.

III. The Aftermath

But, here now, let's savor this much, this time,

This little we can surely give eachother;

This fleeting, ecstatic moment for now.

Nevermind the wherefores & whereafters,

O, let them come later!

                                         We are here now;

Let's be immediate and beautiful

With one another while we still can—try,

Ere those shudders and exhalation come

And take with them this magical thinking,

This sweet moment, the memory of it;

And leave with us in its passing

Those cold and lonely facts & futures

As we lie entangled and sweaty and

Sticky—and possibly second guessing.