As the sixties passed you by in Berkeley,
as we limber-limbed young women
tumbled onto madras covered beds
with guys who turned us on,
did you imagine us awakening
in what was left of last night’s clothes,
furry-tongued and tousled,
smelling of stale dope and sex?
As lyrics taunted you, a clumsy economics
prof: I can’t get no … please allow me to …
satis … let’s spend the …faction…
You dreamed up The Go-Go Can – psychedelic
paint can, concealing bare necessities – paper nightgown,
panties, toothbrush, a tidy bar of soap – neatly wrapped
accessories for sex without the mess.
Then talked a marketing executive at Macy’s,
middle-aged and clueless, into stacking pyramids
of pink and orange striped Go-Go cans,
eye-level near designer bags.
We didn’t buy them, not one.
Your first mistake: we didn’t shop at Macy’s.
Macy’s wasn’t cool. We were Salvation Army chic.
Your next: we didn’t wear nightgowns – silk,
or satin, sequined, feathered, see-through, lace.
Why would we advertise with a Go-Go can?
We liked to lounge on plumped up pillows,
pass around a joint, send smoky come-on signs,
and then somehow, find ourselves in beds.
We did it naked.
We liked the mess.
Image: “Naked Girl Asleep” by Lucian Freud