Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey. He has been twice nominated for Best of the Net, which proves that even a broken clock can be right twice a day.
I don’t know why it’s so difficultfor me to say
what so many poetshave said so many times before—
the “F” word, I mean.
Ginsberg told Americato “F” itself
(which it promptly did)and Bukowski let it spill
like warm beer from his mouth(which it often did as well)
and I can’t even say the wordnot even once.
It’s a good wordas good as any in the OED
no worse than “screw” or “shag”and better even than “shtup”
and “boff” and “bang.”
I try, of course:“f” “f” “fu” “fu” “fu”
but can’t get past that consonant.
Is it the image of my mother’s ghosthovering over me with a bar of soap?
or the deity, any deity,about to strike me down
(as he or she most surely would)?or my sense of courtesy, chivalry
propriety or the politically correct?
How would Freud explain
I’ll try again:“fu” “fu” “fu” but can’t.
This repression thinghas got me down
which is whyI’m all fucked up.