DON DRAPER POETRY SEX MAN
Season 6 Finale

WHO
WILL
GET
KILLED

If somebody doesn't get killed
I'm gonna be so disappointed
First person I would like to be murdered
is Bobby, so I can get a new one
Second person I would like to be murdered
is Ed Sullivan, because that guy bothers me
Third person I would like to be murdered
is maybe me, Don Draper, so I can
take off the suit of my body at last
So I can loosen the tie of my neck,
unbutton my torso, and unzip
my ... my actual penis, I guess
Sorry
I took the metaphor too far

Roger Sterling is pissed that his grandchild
sucks so bad at art. I laugh in his face, because
my grandchild is gonna be Robert Mapplethorpe
taking masterpiece pictures of dudes with whips
up their asses all day long and I CAN'T WAIT

Hershey's. HERSHEY'S. Will we get Hershey's?
We must get Hershey's, because then I'll be able
to make so many jokes about "the chocolate kiss"
(sex thing, possibly also a butt thing,
like for instance
two dirty butts passionately kissing)
Get me a room with Hershey's,
so I can make chocolate love to it

Oh no I am having a flashback to hobo times
A flashback of a Bible thumper trying
to steal the sluttiness of my mother-hos
"The only unpardonable sin is to believe
God cannot forgive you." Also to have sex
with a little bitty rabbit, on Easter

WHY IS DON DRAPER IN JAIL?
Just because he punched a f**king minister?
He punches ministers every night in his dreams
and God actually thanks him for it
TAKE DON DRAPER TO COURT
AND HE WILL BE HIS OWN LAWYER
AND HE WILL USE THE "AIR BUD" DEFENSE
AND THE JUDGE WILL SET HIM FREE

Pete's mother has been pushed off a ship
by Manolo, the gigolo of gay intrigue!
Wait a minute. Don't you dare tell me
that the only person who gets murdered
in this episode is Pete's g**damn mom

I AM POURING ALL MY BOOZE DOWN THE SINK
so the crocodiles in the sewer can have it
I want to get the sewer crocodiles uncontrollably drunk
so they'll get rowdy and munch my enemies

Bottom line:
I AM DRINKING TOO MUCH
AND I WANT TO MOVE TO CALIFORNIA
I AM A RIPE ORANGE THAT IS READY
TO BE JUICED BY MY DESTINY,
WHICH IS: CALIFORNIA
I will squirt so much OJ into my wife there
because I will love my wife again, in California

Two words:
PEGGY
CLEAVAGE

Time for Peggy to be a heifer of sex
and make Ted hungry with the steaks on her chest
"VIXEN BY NIGHT," moos Harry

Ted is waiting in a hallway to boink Peggy
"I DON'T KNOW WHY WOMEN DO ANYTHING!"
he shouts at her. Well I do, Ted
It is because they have internal boobs
floating around in their bodies confusing them
"I'm gonna leave my wife," grunts Ted,
and suddenly we are seeing Peggy in a bra
I hope Peggy's new cat gets to watch
them f**k -- that cat looked raunchy as hell

Beware: he will not leave his wife for you, Peggy!
He's gonna tell her that he "worked late on Hershey"
I hope that "working late on Hershey"
will be Mad Men's new euphemism
for anal adultery, or whatever just happened
Ted seems like an absolute freak for anal to be honest

Also Ted has a bad nipple, in my opinion
It's nothing compared to my nipple,
which is like a red sun rising in the east

Well, I managed to be sober for approximately one day
I am thirstier for brown liquid than I have EVER been
You know what else is brown? Chocolate
Also ... my hobo past, which I suddenly
feel the urge to tell everybody about

I can't stop. Suddenly I'm confessing that I am
an orphan and I grew up in a whorehouse
and I read about Hershey on the toilet
and I went through the pockets of johns
to get enough money to buy a chocolate bar
"and it said sweet on the package. It was
the only sweet thing in my life"
Just as later, the only sweet thing
in my life would be anal adultery

And just like that:
DON
DRAPER
IS
GETTING
FIRED

You know what that means. To fire
Don Draper is to kill him. Don Draper
is dead. Long live Dick Whitman!

"There was a man named Hershey.
He made enough chocolate to build a town"
My children stare up at the whorehouse
of my hobo youth. "This is where
I grew up," I tell them, as hobo light
shines from my face, as my hands
grow fingerless gloves, as everything
I own folds itself up in a handkerchief
and hangs like a sun over my shoulder --
not the sun of California, but the sun
I was born under, the sun of nothing
and nothing to lose, the sun of finally
traveling
light

*
*
*

WHA' HAPPENED?
a poem for season six

You know Frank O'Hara's
"I do this I do that" poems?
Well Don Draper writes those too
except they're "I f**k this
I f**k that" poems

I did this, I did that. I began
this season in hell, where I guess
I got inseminated with a demon,
because I started acting VERY BAD --
I got shot up with speed in my ass,
which I LOVED, I smoked hash
and hallucinated that my wife
was pregnant with the universe,
I had sex in front of my daughter
BY ACCIDENT, thank you very much

I had flashback after flashback
to my hobo childhood, I had flashback
after flashback to a time when the only
suit I owned was THE MUD
and I was President of Pig Club

EVERYONE GOT ASSASSINATED,
assassinations were happening so much
that my sexiness suffered, so I tried
to figure out how I could have sex
with an assassination, but everyone
told me it was illegal

I lost some of my smoothness,
my dick is no longer a jazz flute
tootling irresistible music --
my dick is now one of those
historical bugles that make
people feel sad when they hear it

I even feel sad when I hear it,
which is why I stopped f**king
my wife somewhere along the line
and started pumping TAPS
into the most depressing
next-door neighbor I could find

I f**ked brunettes and I feared death,
I spread out on the glacier of my ex-wife
and floated like an old man out to sea --
I thought I had died for a minute,
but then the fresh air put its mouth
to me like a fluffer and I rose again

I ADVERTISED. I stuck my dick in the gas tank
of a Chevy, I made a tomato ejaculate Heinz,
I buttered my bottom lavishly with margarine
and then spanked myself, I poured milk
all over myself and pretended a big udder
was squirting me, I made Ocean Spray
ejaculate in a cranberry bog, I melted
a Hershey bar in my pocket
and then shoved my whole fist in there

My plot developed so hard it needed a bra
and I couldn't stand it anymore, I had to touch it,
I had to rip the clothes off my plot,
I had to lay my plot down on the bed and plunge
into it, at last, and become one with it, at last,
and finally cry out my own name:

oh,
Dick Whitman


Patricia Lockwood is the author of Balloon Pop Outlaw Black (Octopus Books, 2012). Her poems have appeared widely, including in The New Yorker, Slate, Tin House and Poetry. Follow her on Twitter at @TriciaLockwood.