Two dozen years,
and I am still a stranger to my ass.
Truth is that we have never met,
shaken hands or done much
other than bump into each other
on occasion or simply rub each other the wrong way
in private moments,
the lesser known stories of the rich and famous begin
with parts of them they don’t really know.
I’d like to hold a conversation,
take it to lunch.
Ask it if it blushes at attension.
or perhaps it’s a feminist/radicalist ass
that rustles deep-seated anger
towards your comments,
and suggest to you pay more attension to my breasts.
It could be fluent in many languages.
I don’t know we’ve never met.
Or maybe we’ve met, but my ass was to shy
to say something – like boys who dance as close as they can
to get a good look – just hoping one of you has the balls
to do something about it.
My ass would.
I can tell. A good conversation and my ass might
turn the whole world around.
Ask your ass.
I bet there is a high percentage of asses
that can fit physics and cultural cristism,
lawn ornamentation and world peace in the sentance
much better than I did.
My ass would be a doctor. Of Mathematics.
It would. It could calculate inches
and diameters and expose the world to
virtual communities whre the size of the penis
actually reflects the real person.
We’d throw a party for it.
Dress up my ass in a a nice suit.
It might make a speech
and bring the house down
to it’s knees
begging for more.
Because I never could.
I’m not an ass.
This is a poem by a person called Hawk Kincaid from the book Hos, Hookers, Call Girls and Rent Boys. I really liked this powem and wanted to do an image for it. This is the actual image I submitted for the collab in the end. I think when it came down to drawing it it was hard to represent but I enjoyed creating the image.