Dead Poets Society: Wesleyan University Chapter

Continuing in our series of best memories from the dead poet's society, I bring to you a poem titled "Best. Meeting. Ever. Ever.." From what I remember of the piece, it was a rather fabulous, recklessly violent meeting that resulted in a series of feverish disputes between me and Sam that continued for several months. At least until that time he needed the surgery. That bastard had it coming, though.

5/6/2004 - "Best. Meeting. Ever. Ever." (this is a poem)

Andrea: Tonight at dead poet’s society Sam and I acted out on our initial dream to make this a dead poet’s fight club. He said, “want to do it?” and we got up and hit each other for a while. You should have been there.

Vincent: Yeah, so, Sam and Andrea were hitting each other like little bitches. At first I thought it was really funny and then I thought it was scary and then they got tired and stopped.

Sam: Andrea and I hit each other a little, but nothing serious. Hopefully next time blood will be shed from my nose. I’d like to give a shout out to my Butt A peeps.

The Dead Poet's Society, the infamously top-secret (oxymoronic?) club that you want to be a member of, is no longer conducting regular meetings. This is what I like to call "taking a break." It had to be this way... there was something coming between us... that thing, of course, being the Atlantic ocean, as I (andrea) am currently studying abroad in Germany. So, to fill the gap in all of our souls, for the first time ever, I bring to you: The Best Of The Dead Poet's Society. This week's choice is a classic, inspired by a poem about Sam's mother, and the challenge to begin and end a poem with the phrase, "licking clit."

4/15/2004 - "On Foss Hill"

Licking clit licking clit licking clit
And by licking I mean
Gently running my longing tongue over budding essence
Sweet sensual and sticky
Oozing with nectar
Dripping
Can’t miss a drop
She reaches out
And grabs my bosom
as I run my lips across her lips
We moan
And lick
In unison
And we open like treasure chests
Something buried deep within
Ecstasy pouring out like a faucet
Greedily snatching at snatches
Our lips open wide
We run our tongues
Our cunts open wide
We run our tongues
Over each side
Under each side
Finally inside
She giggles with delight
Soft sensual laughter
Making her body quiver in anticipation
Rising within her
Like bubble gum bubble bath
Like smoke from a fire
Like the tides coming to shore
Popping, burning and splashing
Fingers fumbling over tender flesh
Embracing essences explode
Licking clit licking clit licking clit

Part I: Train

Wow, that’s so subjective
Don’t write that, don’t write that
Write don’t write that, don’t write that
We are writing a group poem
A what
A group poem

Part II: From

Isn’t it Wednesday
Ew I am so popular
Ew use those if you want
That was the ultimate lala

Part III: Childhood

Drink warm coffee
Let’s pretend we are on a desert island
Don’t trust the librarian
Let’s pretend we’re playing pretend
Borges was a librarian
Its like one of the games where you ask all the questions and you know what is going to happen
What if I lived under the chair
Let’s have an orge with borges
Oh, that’s so not childhood
Can you write that

Is that what Robert Frost looks like?
I think he’s three dimensional.

There’s a sailor knocking at my door
His heroic heroin’s hallucinated holograms
Are troubling him
Heroine heroine heroine
Sir sir no need to be bothered
And then the son of Sam was risen triumphantly up the bell tower
The tower of bell tower
Bell tower power
Floating on the mayflower
Chairman Mao’er

There’s a man outside
And a man inside
And they’re sad as a duck’s feet
Inside little duck’s shoes
Which aren’t sad at all
Heroine heroine heroine
There’s heroine inside the duck’s shoes
And that’s why it has the blues
And that’s why it has the boots
And that’s what it’s wearing on its foots

There’s a backpack in the roof
And that’s when I went oops
Because it didn’t rhyme
Heroine heroine heroine
What does asbestos smell like?
It smells like a sailor on the docks
After a long coastal hike
Or a slutty goldilocks
flirting with the men outside the heroin(e).

Clarification from the dps: the goldilocks figure was brought into this poem to tie all the elements together. She embodies the idea of “who’s been sleeping in my bed, Sam,” drug use and the men (sailor and outside). She projected an ideal of feminitity and an idyllic past. Dude, she was slutty. Did baby bear know? She liked the young ones, like Sam’s son.