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My last girlfriend broke my bed. Yes
we were having sex on it, and maybe
you think I was at least half responsible,
but she was the one who liked to drift
up into the corner of the padded back
where she'd spread her arms like a queen,
and all I could think of was the man
who sold me this fifteen-hundred dollar
sofa-bed, warning me never to put
extra weight where the head should be,
which was exactly where our bodies were,
humping the morning, she in her
careless abandon, me unable to get
the octagonal rims of the salesman's glasses
out of my head; she producing
lovely, husky groans, me listening
to the complaining of springs and joints
and hollow chrome. She would have
scolded me for such a concern —
a piece of furniture compared to living
in the moment, the pleasure of a woman,
a woman who was, after all this time,
adjusting me to intimacy, wanting me
to connect and come, though I didn't
see why this all couldn't take place
a few feet down and to the left.
Soon it wasn't happening at all,
and in the end I found I could tell
her everything except this — better
to have her think my head was full
of other women, or baseball, than discover
I was Felix Ungar guarding the coffee table,
ready with a coaster to ruin his life.
She left me with a convex bed. I sleep
as though on a boulder, feet and head
lower than my chest, listening to the traffic
on Greenwich Avenue, which never stops.
©2003 Douglas Goetsch and Nerve.com
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Commentarium (27 Comments)
maybe it's time for a futon...?
In my head, I'll be "humping the morning" all day. A fine poem. Yes, very fine.
I can't believe I actually took the time to click on that picture to read this mindless drivel. I guess the joke was on those of us who thought the sexy picture would give way to something entertaining...
Oh! I like this, it's sweet.
With a gorgeous babe as seen here, what man would have time and interest to bother sending a poem to nerve?
A sofa bed would solve many a clutter issue in my bedroom. Thankyou for the poem.
Yo Nerve,
You're underestimating your audience by publishing work like this--when there are so many interesting things going on in poetry right now. Politically minded works, language oriented work, prose-poems, experimental poetry, etc. Even those as powerful and challenging in their form as they may or may not be in their content--THAT is sexy. Whaaaa....is THIS shit? Sofa bed? Who fucking cares? People do not read poetry to get off. If they are drawn to read a poem only b/c you've placed a photograph of a naked woman above it, what does that say? People read poetry, just in case--just in case they might, once, be able to relate to something normally incomprehensible--the idea/the aura/the identity/the notion that there's a reason for the self in a (or what seems like an often) clueless society. In Russia, citizens buy poetry off the shelf like it were food--and hell, sex and food are both intrinsic needs, right? It would be nice to see you approach poetry in this regard. At this point, this section seems awful tokenistic. I don't need baubles baby, I need dick.
Smooches,
Reader
Nerve editors, take heed! When feedback becomes more interesting than the presented writing itself, it's time to look for fresh ideas. Kudos to XO, one articulately disgruntled reader, for telling it like it is. _Jules
How like a guy to view eroticism in terms of what it's doing to his furiture. I'm surprised he didn't complain about her moans drowning out the sounds of the game on tv..which he undoubtedly keeps in the same room. Sorry little brother, but this isn't poetry, and it sure isn't erotic poetry. Try try again. Who the hell is your peotry editor anyway? Isn't her eceiving any good submissions? Or,is he just biased toward simple solutions? Dude, write about phucking your girlfriend! They'll print that!!
MSTY!!!! Wow, that f***ing rocks! Super cool.
:-)
from, the futon girl.
so much for the verse.
nice tits.
pass the candy bowl.
Oh my God, the same thing happened to me!!! I was laughing so hard when I read this story.
Who is the Goddess in the photo?
"Sofa-Bed" beautifully expresses the ambivalence of a young man trying to achieve intimacy while his brain is drowning out his desire with minutia. The simplicity of the language and the stark symbolism of the broken bed elevate what many may pass off as merely a description of a mundane moment to a level of art that pulses with truth. Those who seek cheap thrills, either sexual or "literary," are bound to miss the point. This poem delivers. Brilliantly.
I think this is gorgeous, sad poetry. It makes me hungry.
Thats and expensive bed hun.... it sounds like something that would happen to me and my ex. Heh.
WOW, honey! I just love being the inspiration for YOUR poem!!! But...sorry about the bed! XOXO
really reallllly interesting.
I like
I like
Kay, here's the deal...The next time you spend 1500 bucks on a bed, you'd better make DAMN shure the thing will hold up under the riggors of a dedicated and enthusiastic search for intimacy. If the bed had been good enough to stand the test, you wouldn't have been neurotic about it while you were with your lady, (although I've known a couple people like you and odds are that you would have found something else to fret over), she might still be there coaxing you out of your dark hiding spot, she might have decided that you were too high maintinance and bolted, but in any event you would still have a level place to sleep with the next lovely thing that you bring home, and you wouldn't have this
Angst riddeled poem to offer us.
Here's a classic case of emotional transference, he's not sad that his girlfriend left him...he's sad that the glasses wearing geek that sold him the bed (at an exorbidant price I might add) told him that thing would fall apart, AND HE BOUGHT IT ANYWAY! That's called buyers remorse....
Nevermind the fact that Nerve edits our feedback and took away my little rhyme,Sofa Bed is just another whiny same ol' line. I have hopes that next month they'll print something better, maybe even something kewl someone puts in a letter.
But better still, would be the feat performed by Douglas G., that someday soon, he'll hear the tune, and better poet BE.
(Thankyou Ab, too bad no one gets to see what you're talking about, let's hear it for literary censorship)
No offense to the young man and his plight, but this isn't poetry. The sentiments have promise, but this is not even poetic. I mean I never get into bad poetry, good poetry, because the ish is arbitrary and relative from one mood swing to the next. But come on Nerve, instead of stamping a yes on this one for the so-called poetry section, like any decent editor(s), someone in the know should have written the guy a quick note expressing some truth: "This idea is a wonder! We like the sincerity floating off the page, we just immediately think of a personal essay or even the basis for some fiction when reading this..." As someone intimated before, there is too much going on in the world of poetry for nerve to be this shallow.
This poem is over the heads of most. Even my mom got it and loved it. Glad to see Nerve got it, too. ;-)
Since when did poetry NEEED verse? A poem can catch an instant or an eon, in between and beyond. There is no model, no recipe, only what comes from one seeking to pass on experience, thought or feeling. Those close minded ones should rejoice in that this poem is not entitled "Toilet Bowl".
The commentary thus far deeply depresses me. How can people be so dense that in the face of a poem about intimacy they can sit and offer advice about sofabeds? That they can criticize this poem for not being political or experimental, as though all poetry had to be? What school of poetry are they from that the everyday doesn't merit comment, or that it does so only if making some very obvious point and beating us over the head with it? I thought that the poem was quite good. I enjoyed the simplicity of the imagery. I appreciate the show-not-tell approach to the character's emotional state, blaming the partner for the broken bed and avoiding the obvious point just enough to keep me interested. I especially like this bit:
Soon it wasn't happening at all,
and in the end I found I could tell
her everything except this
can you send for me a some peactyre sexual please lam very thank for you goranmohamed@yahoo.co.uk
Honesty can be the best poetry. Unfortunately, the honesty here is not poetic. It's funny as hell, but I have heard better in a bar.
Love your brainy poem.
What's wrong with some of these people?
Now you say something