Friday, October 19, 2012

The "F" Bomb

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 difficult
for me to say

what so many poets
have said so many times before—

the “F” word, I mean.

Ginsberg told America
to “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 word
not even once.

It’s a good word
as 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 ghost
hovering 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

my reticence?

I’ll try again:
“fu” “fu” “fu” but can’t.

This repression thing
has got me down

which is why
I’m all fucked up.



  1. f f fu fu fuc fuc fuck fuck me to tears this was a good one...

    1. Somehow I knew you would like it.