Sex Museum

For Cath, on 22 Years Together

Once an active sort of sport,
Now a schoolboy’s dull report,

Once the specialty of Paris,
Now a corpse behind an arras,

The abbatoir of charm, i.e.,
Colette, Chanel—Gigi!—

Reduced to simple body parts
By the amalgamating arts,

As if nature loved its mademoiselle
Exclusively au naturel:

The proud Madame de Pompadour
An exhibit on the floor,

The demoiselles of Avignon
Just a romp in silicone,

The accumulated wealth of love
Now not thought so well of,

The subject matter’s pedigree
Omitted from its history—

A cataloguer’s clever trick,
To turn emotion into shtick,

An exhibition really more
Of the organizers’ sad decor,

A wooden demimondaine
Reflecting more on lost half-men

Than any insight into lust;
And as for sex—barely just;

We know that all of this
Means no more finally to a kiss

Than any so-called sex curating
Does to normal, non-museum, dating:

The only artifacts it archives
Being its conservators’ sex lives—

Unlike us, whose surging dreams
Are not collected in museums.

June 21st, 2002
rue de Varenne