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The Submarine Races
“See me--Feel me--Touch me--Heal me.”
--the Who lyrics.
Tommy was blind and deaf,
yet he became a pinball wizard,
said the Who.
Dogs and cats like to be petted,
As a teenager, hormones raging, heading
to a local passion pit for the
submarine races, I could hardly wait
to touch my date; what was called petting.
Only rarely, ten cars across, radios blaring,
windows all steamed up, did intercourse
ever make an appearance. Coitus
was the impossible dream, the unclimbed
mountain. So you kissed and swapped spit
until your lips were bruised, unsnapped
a bra, unzipped some zippers, co-masterbated,
and possibly on prom night, scored fellatio.
Kids today hook-up, whatever that involves
I remember when holding hands was a big deal--
but I must say that all that teasing and foreplay
caused a raging case of blue balls--
a malady from the 50’s.
The 60’s led us to
What’s your sign? Let’s fuck!,
the incredible no-bra look, communes,
topless barber shops, free love,
and the best decade of rock and roll ever.
“Heal me”, indeed.
there is still actual touch,
deeper, more meaningful love,
that’s the rumor.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub