I have been wishing I had this- and now iI found it.

This is totally the wrong time of year for this, but I have been working on Bar Fitness which HURTS LIKE STICKING YOUR HAND IN A WOOD CHIPPER and I was looking for my teaching permit and found it. So this is a Dadaist poem I wrote many years ago composed out of cut-and-pasted Salon quotes.

Do you know why I do not observe Valentine's Day?

I will tell you why I do not observe Valentine's Day.

I don't believe in love. I don't believe in compatibility. I don't even believe in sex.

Do you KNOW why that is? Do you know WHY that is? Do you KNOW how I FEEL?

Because the only thing I believe in
now
is breasts.

That's what I want,
above all,
The only thing I want.

Let me tell you about my girlfriend.

She is a statuesque blonde,
with hair and brains resembling the synthetic floss attached to the heads of Barbie dolls,
with about 90 teeth who farts glowing green gas,
calling attention to her breasts.

I mistook cheap sentiment,
awash in artificial lavender blossoms,
for the REAL THING.
But then I learned:
She had her habit of constantly listening to an ear-shattering rendition of "California Dreamin',"
a heart
of American cheese.

Freudian analysis
as told to
Hello Kitty:
simultaneously vacuous and surreal.

Gooey like paint,
the colors will probably rot your teeth,
like
the cover of a book that tries to persuade you to adopt
a
creepy
new religion,
one with custard
and breasts
and full
tummies.

No, it wasn't her intellect I was after.

It wasn't her personality,
(she once had a life,
but she stopped feeding it, so it just

went

away.)

and it

wasn't

her
loathsome rat
baby
visage.

What she lacks in animation, however

she makes up in cleavage; this impressive attribute has a tendency to entirely take over: it grabs hold of you
and squeezes out all

your better judgment.

Her name is Godreche.

The inert Godreche - who resembles a large stuffed doll - intones to a large, impassive stuffed animal. "You

can't just let

yourself go like this," she cautions a bar

of soap.

Because we were,
as The Cleavage said,
swelling with righteous outrage,
"the seven whitest people in America,"

A bunch of animal puppets ogles her chest, including a ratty, cigarette smoking bunny puppet named Mr. Floppy.

Like an entire Renaissance Faire on stage wires.

We all
have
Moments of doubt.

Wasn't he already in hell?

Their sexual relationship, and his outrageous behavior, scandalized literary Paris.

When have you ever seen a porn star, or any screen heartthrob,

sob after orgasm?