Poems by Marcel Stein in Shampoo Issue 18

He fell. Dirty thoughts flew
from my legs, slipped over my belly; hairs
of him disappearing from view,
his pale chest streaked with black hairs

here: in a whirlpool bath with sauna fingers
(I had a studio he really wanted)
where content’s mishandled with dirty fingers
and we spat on it and a hot bath delivered—

Listening so, he kissed
(O studio he really wanted!) to take a bath and
probably dirty and tersely now pushed
with his dirty palm, he spat on it and

my my, my legs slipped over my belly unawares
in the pale blaze of shocked black hairs

All lovers are ridiculous. It must be so!

Large penises: my Webmaster and I both
sat at the bar, chatting happily with the beautiful
teeth that were ours. “I disagree with
you if you mean that the lovers’ desire to belong

is contingent on the betrayal of your sister’s
songbooks,” he said. “For in general, each book must
appear quite odd and ridiculous.” “Be careful,”
I replied. “And ask who can best appreciate the ridiculous!”

The bartender then delivered us some form of spirit
and though we have long since succeeded at this ridiculous thing
(crafting the tale of two ill-fated lovers set against
repentance and a highball that shimmers like silver-downed wings)

his words linger: “Our only teachers are the movies and lovers,
and lovers are like movies: only old ones stir desire.”