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Enjamin Structure Does Le Cult

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Those of you in the know, especially old Parker, are aware that Enjamin Structure is one of this age's criminally neglected poets. I present you with some of his most accessible works, written in all sorts of different styles and forms. Enjoy!

I measure the age of my love
by the length of my meals.
If she's sweet, and grand,
and everything's neat,
the meal lasts forever
and then we wrestle, first dressed,
then not so much; the wrestling
stops and violence becomes intolerable
and I'm happy to hold her, drunk with
music and exhausted relief.

If she's sweet but dull,
or something I've touched for days,
the meals last an hour at most,
then we wrestle dressed then not so dressed,
then we fall asleep and wake up bored
and eat a short breakfast bored
and kiss goodbye bored.
No tension; no release.

If my fingerprints have become
part of her shoulderblades
and I can predict her words
and I loathe her cute quirks
and I know her so well I don't
know her at all,
we take out Chinese and sit in the dark
and eat for a quarter of an hour
and have whole conversations mentally
without ever getting the words out
or even looking at each other.
That's old love:
fifteen minutes of takeaway food;
not because you want to skip to the deed,
you simply can't stand to hear her chewing,
asking for salt, asking about your day,
when she knows full well that
talking about it won't elevate the day.

There is a reason
takeaway food is for bachelors;
it's her job to catch up
if I've already got the chopsticks
in my mouth.

Poetry is a waste
Of time
But yours is
A clever smell
And you
Are a pretty girl
And ours is
A thin little
Mountain cottage
Of a story.

[CENTER]I still often try
To recapture
The feeling
Of feeling
Your legs
Get tense
And I don’t
Know if I’m doing it.[/CENTER]

We took our girls to some rundown resort
Where dinner could be had down by the sea.
The sand was warm enough, the wine was good;
At night we told the girls how certain stars,
When given mythic names and placed in groups,
Could govern all our acts in spite of us.

One night, fresh horror: Where was one of us?
We searched and wept and cursed that damned resort,
And begged for help, until they formed small groups,
Sent off to check for bogeys by the sea.
We looked through sand, in rooms, beneath the stars,
In trunks, the toilet, everywhere: No good.

That wine (some Port, I think) was very good.
Our howling helped: the world grew fond of us.
And, seeing how our wails had made us stars,
We, tragic children, played in our resort:
Where is our girl? Go find her, please. That sea!
Let’s swim. We’ll leave the search to those big groups.

Around this time, the papers helped make groups
Online, to find our little girl. It’s good
To know that anyone can cry a sea
In front of cameras; but, if you’re like us,
(Convinced our suffering’s caused by that resort)
You’ll find some comfort knowing that you’re stars.

They gave us cash! We thanked our lucky stars.
Yet somehow, certain evil, ugly groups,
(Like cops and bitter staff from that resort)
Accused us meanly of not being good!
Of course, you’ll laugh at this if you know us:
Our innocence is plain enough to see.

And yet, at times, we look across the sea,
And wonder: Are we guided by the stars?
If so, it really can’t be blamed on us.
Perhaps we should’ve dined in smaller groups,
And watched our girls to check that all was good.
The truth is such an ugly last resort.

It’s good, though, if our girl is out at sea:
Those groups of cops won’t find a trail to us.
We liked the wine: Resort, you get four stars.