Poems by Jan McLaughlin

Jan McLaughlin aspires to a state of perpetual bliss through personal anarchy
and makes her living moving things around from place to place. Poetry?
Poetry? What's that?

seventy-two hours

your sperm, still alive
inside, swimming
three days, i hear,
they live, searching
an egg, or something
to hold into.
this tides me
through a
second night
without you
within me.


You are her fresh orange juice.

She plays with the skin she's picked
from the tips of her fingers.

He gets excited, seeing her face
on the body of the tee-vee exercise girl;
puts his hand down his shorts;
remembers the first deep thrust
that brought her screaming
back for more in a succession
of mad couplings,
carefully rinsed off
in the middles of nights.

There is a woman across the street
who watches him watching, touching,
from between the slats of her venetians.


I want you in my Jell-o, and the pages of my dictionary.
Architecture: noun.
Eyebrows of roofs lift over smirks.
Wish to find you at the bottom of my glass of
Quick: sip you, lick you, make loud sucking, slurping sounds
as I down the last drop of chocolate goo and burp.

Want to know your numbers as if you are my clock.
Dream you: sheets, pillows, blanket, mattress.
Read you: every syllable of every novel and poem.
Recognize you in a vast expanse of geography.

Speak to you, the wheels of my bicycle, circulating
to markets and dwellings of friends at the horizon.
Wet you, postage stamp, envelope and toothbrush.
Scan the headlines, you, newspaper and magazine.
Find you in the elements of atoms' revolutions,

faster than light neutrinos, electrons, quasars gathering
galaxies, red stars, black holes, invisible planets' mathematics and computations.

Want you evidently everywhere: water, ozone, fire;
in the closing of an eyelid, or parting of a lip;
know you by the turning of a page,
the opening of a door, or the taking of a step
toward the rendering of a sentence of desire.


i submit my body
open, like language,
to your interpretations;

watch how you move intellect
through its surprises,
pausing here and there to gaze,

and gauge the transformation
of my naked wrists,
offered for your kiss,

into tangible assets.
these and all i give.
these, and all.


the pussy's outer reaches' mountain ranges
form the entry to our pleasure; beg
to be explored, guilded, tickled, spread,
subjected to your scrutiny and attention's
teasing. lilly portal. oyster and pearl.

the pussy floats, awaiting fingers' and lips'
commands to ready open, yield, draw out,
inhale you into the cave where ali babba hides
his many clever treasures.

the contents of the pussy wish to be stirred,
and then not: your movement and not-movement
each affording a distinct intonation
in the establishment and the breaking of rhythms.

your hands and mouth say, "open," a thousand ways,
and the pussy answers each demand
with a separate "yes," yearning your arrival.

so when the cock knocks with aspirations of entry,
asks ingress, its head heavy with blood,
and pushes at the unlocked gate to the garden,
it will swing, and rock, and roll, and cinnimon bun
swirl the dick inside a dance choreographed
by children, beasts, or the closest of friends,
so happy to be together again after any time
too long a time to have been apart;
searches out the smooth and rough,
the tight and loose, the depth and shallows--
o. and as we fuck, the pussy unfolds
beyond the farthest reaches of imagination;
caresses with the inmost muscles, your penis
coaxes thoughts of where this beginning lives;
and then, with torso, arms, eyes, and tongues,
tangles in a combination lock of tumbling--
falls from the clouds in a halleleujah chorus of sighs.