I'd swear on a stack of Playboys
for u to the cringe-worthy tunes
of Nirvana; Kurt crying in desperation;
Courtney diving into an ocean of *****,
groping hands; if only they didn't have baby
Frances who grew up hating her mother but
not the money from her father's estate; fine,
let her be that way; string bikini-less &
shaved down there but is it Brazilian  
or Swedish; I've sworn on less:
Penthouse, High Society Gallery,
Titter, Wink & Club all used to publish good
pulp fiction as filler until following Hustler's
lead naked tail in close-up detail became
so all-important there was no room
for literature; it wasn't just sly winks
& side-**** anymore, black bars & disheveled
zonked-out hippies or maidenly housewives;
when free love & women's lib collided
in a ***** coup d'état to overthrow
the rule of tiny penises; it was never twelve inches,
not the big ones or the red ones;
the pink ones or the brown ones, not the green ones
or the yellow ones; u've probably
seen them all in a cop show line-up looking innocent
as baby mice; I swear I'd swear
on a stack of Playboys for u or Playbots,
whichever ur pining for to the stranger
than strange melodious strains of
straining in pain Kurt Cobain
while Courtney spins high on
a pole at upscale galas in Vera ****
& Anna Sui; sweet & I don't even
want to know what I'm swearing to;
holding curse words
in reserve for when I really need
to shout for blood thinking what u
might do to me if u caught me out
after dark in ur neighborhood