Jeff Bagato

Popeye Pops a Boner

Fake tits filling Hollywood
out into silicon valley south
get Popeye in the mood
so he flicks a can of spinach
from his armpit, squeezes it open
in a muscled hand and down
the hatch—prompt effect produced
in trousers as a pup tent pops,
and it’s all Popeye can do
to keep his hands off it for the nonce;
it’s gotta hold
for an explosive vehicle
of blockbuster twister wombs
spinning, begging for implantation
by a real man and not some flea
flicker—so he drives along Sunset
to a red light, picks up momma
needlessly ripe—the time is now—
undoes his trousers
and just for her springs out
a muscled joint pinched and
swollen just like his famous
bicep—I can’t tell you
when she asks
how many implants it took,
but the Industry wouldn’t have
it any other way—movie
ends as he shoots silicon
load onto silicon thighs
and she evaporates into the street
with a fistfull of plastic cash
like a blow up girlfriend
deflating on a careless pin stick—
he guns Camero into setting
sun, leaving a squeal of blue
and a smell of white
jissom

 

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