the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night
one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined
they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite
the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss
they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance
--e.e. cummings
Beyond the artifice of literary sadism, which I love in theory and imaginings, and the saccharine and unrealistic act of making love (who really does that? that expression has always given me the willies, with all the resemblance it doesn't bear to anything fun, I don't think I've ever uttered those words out loud, either as invitation or description of what we've done together, I consider it as reprehensible as the word "panties," but I digress) is my true feeling about sex and sexuality...
I've never "studied" this poem in an academic setting, and had not even read it until Sarge showed it to me a few years ago, although I love e.e. cummings. That Sarge, always full of surprises...
I'm not sure of the context to this poem, except that what immediately came to mind was an image of WW I soldiers on leave, exercising a rough, frantic joie de vivre. May I note that their ladies are no shrinking violets either.
All this is just coming to the point that the poem is for me intensely evocative in strange combination: poignant and nostalgic, as I love and have hero worship for soldiers both vintage and modern, and also perfectly capturing what sex is, in the end, all about--leaving pretension and artifice behind, liberated, not giving a shit, shaking the mountains.
For me, at least.
photo: drinking lemonade with some girls (who bite and buck?)
9 comments:
Oh dear lol.
Oh, wow. I love this poem. I love what you got out of it.
I cringe when a man asks if I want to "make love". God, I despise that phony term for it almost as much as I hate a couple that says, "We're Pregnant!"
How the fuck is the man in any way, pregnant???
I guess I'd rather just call it what it is, SEX. It is a major turnoff to me when it is called anything but sex.
This poem told it like it was. If it is good, you buck and bite. Apparently the men didn't like having sex with women who didn't enjoy it.
Its wonderful and yes, very straightforward. Love the last line a lot!
CUMmings...did you notice that?
I thought it was cool, Leah. Excellent post!
Best wishes,
Skeeter
actually i like the term "make love" when appropriately used. but mostly it's not.
shag is a good word
we're pregnant is TERRIBLE
great poem
xo
why am i not surprised! ;) xoxox
BR: TMI from e.e. cummings?
Karen: THANK YOU for your awesome comment!!!! You made me laugh!!! And you've got good taste in poetry!!!! AND "we're pregnant" TOTALLY runs a close second to "make love"!!!!
Idle Devil: yes, the last line is wonderful, isn't it?
MJ: why, yes, I did notice that. How too apt.
Skeeter: I'm happy I could spread the e.e. joy around a little!
Kylie: I forgive you. I guess that term has different valence for different people. But "shag" is awesome.
savannah: LOL
I love this poem. It reminds me of the song Closer by Nine Inch Nails. I don't know why, but I think the two fit. It drives me crazy when people blush and stammer about sex. Sex is so natural and almost everybody does it. I'm pretty sure that everybody wants to have sex. Anyway, I like this post. Keep up the good work.
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