Saturday, August 24, 2013

Ode to a Sex Tape

Shaky, grainy, poorly lit, thou hath opened
The window to the bedroom of the stars.
Their muddy ducks and hymens broken
Stain thy memory but leave thee unscarred.
O film of celebrity prurience,
Nameless author of impulse and lust,
Eye witness keen to let the public judge:
She to prominence,
He to exile, his career gone to dust,
Whilst thee keeps rolling through infamous sludge.

Sixty million viewers recommended
Brother of Brandy and the beckoning
Daughter of the lawyer who defended
O.J. in his first time of reckoning.
“Do you want to see what my butt looks like?”
Questions Kim—how thy nerve remains steely!
In the face of Ray J’s athletic socks,
His game-time advice:
“When you jack off to this go hard on ‘em homie,”
Pep talk for teams of masturbating cocks.

Dressed in red sweatpants and a white T-shirt,
R. Kelly invites thee down to his den,
Reveals the figure of the money’s worth,
A nimble nymph, two and two years past ten.
She dances for him to the Backstreet Boys,
Draws a deep breath before sucking his dick;
He strokes her head, pets flat her tousled hair:
Charms fathers employ;
She could be his daughter, this nubile trick,
The way that she hugs him when the two are paired.

Watching for too long, my eyes itch and burn,
And the tear I wipe away makes me laugh;
The time thou hast labored without turn
From the flesh 'tis more than my shameful math.
I sit here, languid in my basement tomb,
Clicking and scrolling, buffering the past,
Visiting the site of debauchery’s dance,
Jealous of thy flume,
Bearing you to places varied and vast:
New York, Chicago, Catalina, France.

Paris Hilton is not that kind of girl;
Neither wild nor wanton, she doth proclaim:
“Pussy is the grossest word in the world,”
Yet it was her pussy that brought her fame.
Lone hostage, prisoner of coital pride,
Lashed to the footboard, shackled to the night,
Thou watched her astride the gum-chewing pimp,
Her eyes coy, his wide,
Their pupils like two empty pits of light:
Both stingy hearts, but never did thee scrimp.

Bigger chests on Pam and Tommy Lee;
Newlyweds, each the other’s biggest fan,
Anchored off the coast of brazen nudity:
Tattooed genesis of woman and man.
So in love is Tommy Lee with his wife,
Her body nearly makes him crash the yacht.
Pam to his prick: “That’s gotta’ get me through
The rest of my life.”
How quickly love cools when it starts out hot;
Only thee, trav’ler, stays faithful and true.

Unspool’d, unspoil’d, thou first changed the course
Of Brat Pack Youngblood Mr. Rob Lowe,
Enshrining forever his two-man sport,
Played upon the field of a girl unknown.
His partner’s propping unnervingly strong:
“Harder, Rob, she wants it harder,” he cheers.
A glimpse of myself I see in his face:
The shadow stretch’d long
‘Cross his brow, a pall on my manly gears.
Flaccid for a change, I’ll leave not a trace.

Instead I’ll walk the streets of my simple town,
Quiet as a fox passing from his hole;
The late-summer’s moon wears a tremulous frown,
Lighting the place where flesh meets the soul.
There! In my neighbor’s window displayed,
He and his wife on a Friday night lark,
Searching for something to do with themselves—
A kinkier way.
They draw the blinds, call to thee in the dark,
Then fuck the wedding photos down from the shelves.