An Unsung Hero: The Poetry of Rene Ricard

[headexplode]

For those of you not familiar to one of the Great Poets of Our Time, I introduce Rene Ricard, whose mystical incantations will reverberate through the atmosphere for years to come. Some of his most beloved:

Yesterday I saw a man

In front of a hotel

Calling, "Dick. Dick."

How many times have I

Wanted to stand

On a street corner

And yell for dick?

Every minute

Somewhere

In the world

Parents are

Finding their

Children in drag

He's no good

but we don't love them

because they're good

do we.

So why do we love them?

Because they're beautiful?

Because they're stupid.

What's stupid about being beautiful?

Beauty has brains of its own.

Let's face it

to be beautiful and loved

is about the smartest thing

you can be.

I support the striking coal miners

But will the striking coal miners

Support me?

[headexplode]

AND SO IS MY HEART A CRASH PAD

for Hank

And so is my heart a crash pad

A transient hotel or a men's shelter

There when convenient, a form of welfare

Better than the street in winter for

A hot bath, no fleas, a slow

Blow-job with appropriate drugs

"I love you" the token charge?

My husband panhandles

I'm 40 he's just turned 27

Quiet, soft spoken, unanimously

considered elegant, superstitious,

Gentle, affectionate, caressing.

His **** is enormous, uncut, and

Spectacularly formed. Such weight, it still

Curves upward when erect. After IV years

He blows me now--deeply and sensitive to the feeling

I don't believe him when he says I'm the

Only one he sucks off. It's too easy

To make money. Hard to believe

Someone can tell you they love you

w/ conviction, make love undreamed of... and

Then steal, by now 5 typewriters and

Countless watches, when my money runs out

For even an hour. He's so strung out

He can panhandle $10 in an hour--

His approach must be so attractive. And

Convincing. What does he tell them?

"I love you" when he panhandles in my bed.

[Corcaigh]

AND SO IS MY HEART A CRASH PAD

Well if the topic is uplifting male/female encounters, I'll humbly offer a poem by the punk poet Eddie Armchair, titled Little Red Riding Hood.

Little Red Riding Hood

The man in the black Ford Zephyr on the corner of the street can see you coming,

Your white stilettoes, your high-heel shoes are tapping on the cobbled stones.

He can hear you coming.

That far away echo of feminine footsteps down the road.

Your make-up, made-up face, attracts the disgrace,

of the man in the black Ford Zephyr on the corner of the street.

He crawls along the kerb, your heart beats faster, you’re walking faster.

Take a peek in the car window, see his eyes shining.

The wolf’s eyes pining for your glossy body, the warm skin.

He beckons you in, you run,

Little Red Riding Hood, you run.

Your stilettoes slip on the shiny cobbles, you drop your bag.

The things of women fall out.

The cracked perfume bottle, the Tampax and compact.

He smells your scent, your memorable scent.

he’s smelt it so many times.

The odour of your clothes, your powdered nose.

Little Red Riding Hood, the man in the black Ford Zephyr is above you.

Little Red Riding Hood, lies there, the wolf pants, he drools.

The woman in the terraced house on the corner of the street can hear you screaming,

but her eyes are heavy with sleep.

You weep, you weep, your tears fall quickly on the hand squeezing your throat.

He reeks of filth, he smothers you in sweat.

He parts your legs and splits your peace.

You bleed all over the cobbled street.

He pushes and pushes ‘til you scream and scream.

The man in the black Ford Zephyr has satisfied his dream.

Little Red Riding Hood ripped in two, bloody, split, battered and bruised.

That sweet young body, used and abused.

The man in the black Ford Zephyr is driving away.

You crawl along, naked and wet, ripped to shreds.

The man in the black Ford Zephyr is lying in his bed.

He’s moving his hand to the rhythm of the thoughts in his head.

He’s moving his hand to the rhythm of the thoughts in his head.