Anti-Faust by Charles Gullans

You by the fireplace, your glass of whiskey

Set on my mantelpiece, a little frisky

As you are speaking of your long success

And probing in my depths of idleness,

Smooth talker, you, you Shakespeare of men’s hearts,

Now turned Catullus of the nether parts,

I hear the offer you are making me,

As crude and brutal as pure sex would be

Without the love that should attend it. You,

First Author of Conversion, know how true

And vulgar images engage weak sense,

Consuming us with promise of the intense

And promises of power. But that’s a lure

I can resist. Why not try something sure

And obvious that no one could refuse,

An endless wallet, say? And I could use

Something much rarer, Father of Alcohol,

A bar companion I could stand at all,

A waiter who refuses tips, a cop

Who calls me sir, an honest body shop.

I should not ask, instead I should be thanking

You for what you have given, Father of Banking,

Father of All Insurance, Uncle Tom’s

And Aunt Jemima’s, Father of Uniforms,

And Dum-Dum Bullets, and Close Order Drill,

And Gatling Guns, you Eater of All Swill.

The gifts I need, I may find yet in time,

And I may not. Yours have their birth in slime

Father of Napalm. Turn away your face,

Finish your drink, and leave my fireplace.

From “Letter From Los Angeles: Poems” (John Daniel: $8.95; 72 pp.; 0-936784-79-2). Gullans, professor of English at UCLA, is the author of several books. His poems have appeared in many literary periodicals, including Poetry, Michigan Quarterly, Paris Review and others. 1990, Charles B. Gullans. Reprinted by permission of John Daniel and Company.