A Dozen Cocktails — Please
No spinsterlollypop for me — yes — we have
No bananas — I got lusting palate — I
Always eat them — — — — — —
They have dandy celluloid tubes — all sizes —
Tinted diabolically as a baboon’s hind-complexion.
A man’s a —
Piffle! Will-o’-th’-wisp! What’s the dread
Matter with the up-to-date-American-
Home-comforts? Bum insufficient for the
Should-be wellgroomed upsy!
That’s the leading question.
There’s the vibrator — — —
Coy flappertoy! I am adult citizen with
Vote — I demand my unstinted share
In roofeden — witchsabbath of our baby-
Lonian obelisk.
What’s radio for — if you please?
“Eve’s dart pricks snookums upon
Wirefence. ”
An apple a day — — —
It’ll come — — —
Ha! When? I’m no tongueswallowing yogi.
Progress is ravishing —
It doesn’t me —
Nudge it —
Kick it —
Prod it —
Push it —
Broadcast — — — —
That’s the lightning idea!
S.O.S. national shortage of — —
What?
How are we going to put it befitting
Lifted upsys?
Psh! Any sissy poet has sufficient freezing
Chemicals in his Freudian icechest to snuff all
Cockiness. We’ll hire one.
Hell! Not that! That’s the trouble — —
Cock crow — silly!
Oh fine!
They’re in France — the air on the line —
The Poles — — — — — —
Have them send waves — like candy —
Valentines — — —
“Say it with — — —
Bolts!
Oh thunder!
Serpentine aircurrents — — —
Hhhhhphssssssss! The very word penetrates
I feel whoozy!
I like that. I don’t hanker after
Billyboys — but I am entitled
To be deeply shocked.
So are we — but you fill the hiatus.
Dear — I ain’t queer — I need it straight — —
A dozen cocktails — please — — — —
(Written between 1923 and 1927; published posthumously in 1983 in Sulphur 6.)
I need to summon the spirit of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven to help me send nudes.
Lights up on a small house just outside Tallahassee, Florida.
A woman stands alone in her living room wearing a bathrobe, iPhone in hand. She closes her eyes and removes her robe. She holds the phone in her right hand, as far away from her body as possible. She smizes. Pose. Snap. No. She can see the creases on her forehead. She turns to a large mirror. She stands to the side and sucks in her belly. Pose. Snap. No. She hates how low her boobs hang when she turns to the side. She faces forward again and uses her upper arms to draw her breasts together. Pose. Snap. No.
WOMAN: I need to summon the spirit of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven to help me send nudes.
The woman recently got divorced. She filed the paperwork a week before the pandemic turned serious in the United States. Her ex moved out the day before the lockdowns started.
She is trying to adjust to single life and quarantine life at the same time. She created dating profiles, a Tinder, a Hinge, but sees little point in using them since she cannot actually meet up with anyone due to social distancing. Former lovers have reached out via Instagram since she publicly announced her divorce. She contemplates sending them nudes. She imagines that it might be fun. Sending them nudes feels safer than starting something new with a stranger.
Only problem with sending nudes is, the last time she was single and sending nudes, she was under 30 and now she is over 30 and the nudes just are not the same. She feels she has to hold her boobs together in every photo, because they fall so far off to the sides now (but then it looks awkward if she holds her boobs together in every photo). She has stretch marks on her hips. The backs of her arms jiggle. The nudes just are not the same.
The woman wants to summon the spirit of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven: Dada poet, divorcee, performance art pioneer, and nude art model extraordinaire. She imagines the Baroness will help her pose and will impart some much-needed moxy.
To summon the spirit of the Baroness, the woman lights a candle, burns some sage, and places four tin cans on the ground. In the center of the four cans, the woman places 2 postage stamps, a tail-light, some Wrigley’s spearmint gum, a pussywillow kept clean, a block of stolen cheese, and some pubic hair.
WOMAN: I summon the spirit of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven. Baroness, the only one living anywhere who dresses Dada, loves Dada, lives Dada. Dada, dada, dada, dada
The Baroness appears. She wears a tin can bra, a tight-fitted bodysuit, a working taillight on her rear, and a bird cage with a live bird in it over her head.
BARONESS: Ich werde Ihnen zeigen, wie man die Akte sendet!
*The sound of an incoming message*
A text message arrives on the woman’s phone; it’s someone from Hinge.
BARONESS: What is this?
WOMAN: A telegram. He says: have you found a quarantine partner yet?
But the thing is, Baroness, I don’t know if I want a quarantine partner. You see, I just got a divorce and settling down again with some man I don’t even know seems a bit rushed. I would rather just send these nudes on Instagram to former lovers.
BARONESS: PffttttttttT!! Braaaaaaahhhhhhh.
WOMAN: But this man from Hinge seems like he has a great job. It might be nice to go over to his place and be his quarantine partner. Maybe he has a fridge with an ice-maker. Maybe he has Netflix.
BARONESS: Raawwwwrrrrr. Then why did you summon me?
WOMAN: I originally summoned you to help me send the nudes to old lovers on Instagram but then I got this message from a guy on Hinge who lives in town so now I am wondering if I should meet up with him.
BARONESS: SEND THE NUDES!
The Baroness undresses. This might take a while. The bird may escape the cage.
BARONESS: Now, watch and learn. Brraaahhh.
The woman readies her iPhone camera. The Baroness demonstrates a pose: the Baroness gets up on the woman’s ottoman, bends forward, puts her hands on her knees, lifts up her right foot, and gazes intently beyond the camera. Pose. Snap. Yes. Stunning.
The woman hands the camera phone to the Baroness. The woman demonstrates for the Baroness how to take the photo. The Baroness, always ahead of her time, gets it very quickly. The woman does as the Baroness did: she gets up on the ottoman, bends forward, puts her hands on her knees, lifts up her right foot, and gazes intently beyond the camera. Pose. Snap. The woman examines the photo. No. It is not right when she does it.
BARONESS: You look like an aristocrat.
The woman nods in agreement.
WOMAN: An old aristocrat.
The Baroness has not been helpful.
WOMAN: Can you just leave?
BARONESS: I cannot go out the way I came in. I live here now.
The Baroness exits through the woman’s front door and goes out to haunt Florida as Florida Woman.
The woman is alone in her house again.
*The sound of an incoming message*
WOMAN: Hinge man says: I kind of want to play house. Come over. I’ll make you dinner.
The woman, still unsure if this is safe on a physical level and unsure if it’s what she wants on an emotional level, opens Instagram and returns to the DMs from her former lovers. She thinks: these men have gotten older too (although she knows it’s more forgivable for men to get older than it is for women). But maybe she can forgive herself for getting older. Maybe she can send a nude.
She gets on the ottoman, bends forward, puts her hands on her knees, lifts up her right foot, and gazes intently beyond the camera.
Pose. Snap.