Benjamin Blake

The Waif

A quiet night
Already retired for the evening
When an anguished cry
Sounded outside

Flashlight in hand
I ventured onto the front porch
Pausing, while silence rang out around me
I was about to go back inside
When the sobbing started back up again

I found her alone
Hugging torn-stockinged legs
With skinny arms
Mascara running from fearful eyes
And painted mouth smeared

I sunk to my haunches
And a placed a hand on her back
She whispered a plea
For a ride to her mother’s house

The car was backed out the driveway
I told her at least she wasn’t blacking out
As I handed her a cigarette

She ducked from oncoming headlights
As I steered through the almost-empty streets
We parked and smoked
Until the windshield fogged
And we held eachother close
For not nearly long enough

She said she may be back
To bang on the window glass
And I said it was okay
My bed was right there

I did as was asked
And watched in the rearview mirror
As she ran disheveled up the street
Disappearing into a yard a few houses up
I started the engine, swung the car around
And headed for home
A strange feeling brewing
In the pit of my stomach

Hukka Bukka

I Want to Fuck You

Instead of playing the same old games with you,
Rather than throwing hackneyed bullshit your way,
Not one to bring roses before the wine-and-dine-routine,
I’ll be crude and say I want to fuck you.
I want to look at those sleepy green eyes and say,
Let’s do it in a bathtub of spaghetti sauce, let’s do it on a bed
of hundred dollar bills, let’s fuck while Jay’s blaring.
I’ll suggest every way we can perform the perfect animal act under
a twilit day in the fast lane city.
I’ll do anything to see where your legs disappear.
I’ll be gross, a gentleman, a cad, a gambler carrying a diamond cane
for copulation’s sake.
Will you believe me when I say I only want your mind?
Will you call me a randy cock when I grab your tits?
Will you forgive this rhetoric and not call me sentimental?
I suffer for lack of your buttocks.
I am bad, I am a desperate, demented dirty old man.
I want to fuck you.
In the cherry orchards outside your daughter’s pool patio.
In the backseat of your ’57 Studebaker.
Everywoman, I want to drill into you life,
for the only abortions I believe in are poems.
I want to find you some midnight and keep you the way you are,
wearing white.
I want you to cook sausage and eggs after we screw all night.
You can be on top if we’re on an elevator in the Big Apple.
But no, this is Memphis, the city of vampires.
Where sex is a mongoloid everybody hides in homes.
Where sex whispers in our ears like a hoarse beggar.
I want to fuck you anyway.
Fuck you on Halloween, both of us wearing monster masks.
Your garters shining under the voyeur moon.
With neighborhood brats giggling and clapping as we both come.
While bookies collect the action on God’s most desired sinful act.
I want to fuck you after you’ve seduced me in a junk yard, after
we’ve climbed a hill of rusty steel.
I want to meet you in a supermarket, toss the lamb chops on the linoleum,
hump and thump you in the freezer display, the cold icing our asses.
I want to fuck you in a Graceland church under an Elvis crucifix.
I want dogs to bark, babies to bawl, guns to shoot all over this ragdoll
city when we engage in coitus.
I want to cream in you in a forgotten graveyard, just before the cops’
blue sirens wail through our orgasms,
I want to crank you on a steamboat smuggling coke for hot D.C. sexpots.
I don’t care if you dislike me for my language.
I want you to react, not fall asleep saying No.
I want you to claw my back when I’m giving you everything I’ve got.
I want you to moan to the sun when we’re buzzsawing on our high rise roof.
I don’t care how many times you don’t want to fuck.
I need to thirty percent of my waking hours.
I want to caress you like no movie star I ever have caressed.
I want to fuck you, not talk about your divorce.
Not about the lasagna you had with Rock last night.
Not about the kid you killed with your Volvo the other day.
My ego requires that highest compliment, You’re the best.
I’d stop shaving for a year if you’d let me take off your slip with my nose.
My smiles would melt into your kisses if you’d let me slide your panties
down those young sycamore legs.
I’d tongue every inch of your butterscotch body.
I’d tell any lie about the pyramids to sack you harder than a quarterback.
I’d mix tenderness and violence in a marriage of schizophrenics.
I have to have your body before I die.
I must sing to you under a basement balcony.
I must tell you my latest sexist jokes while I bang you.
If you wanted me to, I’d be Putin’s sycophant.
If I could con you into opening your door, I’d give you my gold.
You don’t know how I feel.
I dream of your 38-23-37 figure every day, while secretly I’d love you
a bit boyish, like my kid sister.
I want you to be my mother as I suck your mango tits.
You don’t have a face—only a cunt.
I’d eat it forever if I had a farm of strawberries along with it.
I’d eat it even if you farted as I sipped and supped.
I want to fuck you at seven o’clock in the morning.
I want to lay you in the post office under WANTED posters.
I must have you in the name of conquest.
I have to have you in the name of love and lust.
Will you please me or say Fuck off?
Can I follow you home to your hot tub, drink White Russians by lamplight,
and dance to the Tennessee waltz?
Even if I read you poems by Marvell, Donne, Browning, Shakespeare,
and myself?
I want to fuck you in your 40-year-old Rapunzel-haired wonder.
I want to whisper into your sensitive ears the parables of Satan, Jesus,
and Woody Allen.
I crave you after I eat oysters and vanilla custard.
I’d love to fuck you in a Ferris wheel as it’s ascending.
The whole circle would crack like a giant egg.
The sun would grin, the sky would chuckle.
Crowds would spit in the eyes of the corrupt President.
As I fuck you I want to think of the kingdom lost in the name
of the most desired quantity.
Can you be an immortal celebrity forever, with your famed clit that
twitters in spasms when you’re wiggling to a bossa nova catechism?
I know you accuse me of hating women.
But I still want to fuck you.
I live for the moment I can drive and drive and drive forever into you,
the most beautiful hussy in the world.
At the muscle club, in a telephone booth, in the cargo belly of an airplane
where we’ll play Mr. & Mrs. Job.
I’d rather fuck you than eat.
I know the color of your body’s skin in an orange-glow room.
I dwell on whether your toes curl when you scream with disappointed ecstasy.
I will sing 582 country and western songs to get into your pants.
I will lie and say I can stand women.
I will hitchhike a ride with a carload of drunk Indians to get to your house
and hug you in a necessity of foreplay.
You know by now I need your body worse than a check to pay my gas bill
Every part of it, especially your pussy.
It doesn’t matter if I have to die in clever ways.
It doesn’t matter if sable is more expensive this time of year.
All I know is I want your blossomed body.
The challenge of the unattainable is too much for peanut pride.
The anathema of blemishes makes me puke with anticipation.
I know you won’t disappoint me.
Bite me in the balls as your first submissive duty.
I’ll pay anything for a look at those moon-crater nipples.
I’ll sing “How Sweet I Roamed From Field to Field” for a taste of your
true soul.
Don’t reject me.
Don’t order me to climb a streetlight and give the bulb a blow job.
Tell me I can have that legendary fig of yours, pink in its hot beauty,
folded like a dream nobody’s dreamed.
Promise me you are my last hope to be human.
Call me Romeo, call me Bono, call me Valentino, but give me some of
that renowned
hair pie.
I’ll let you whip me with your hickory switches.
I’ll let you sit on my ageing Auden face.
I’ll open bank accounts in your name.
You could become the world’s most powerful woman.
All you have to do is let me fuck you.
In  the stadium while the Giants are stomping the Cowboys 69-0.
In the boxing ring, with the world’s hungry watching, we’ll be each
other’s prize.
We’ll fuck and fuck until the universe implodes in a climax of H-bombs.
We’ll rub ourselves raw in caves, listen to Beatles records, and view
the Olympics.
We’ll be a paradigm of physical prowess.
Let me fuck you before I turn fag.
Let me bite your neck before my keepers catch up with me.
I want to fuck you before I die.
I want to gently scrape my teeth over every inch of your famous skin.
Let me comb my fingers through your sand-specked hair.
Say Yes to every question I propose.
Pretend I’m Picasso at his most potent.
Pretend I’m a priest who’s never fucked a nun like you.
Say I’m Goliath, say I’m Dilbert, say I’m a little boy.
But let me fuck you before my gonads shrivel into raisins.
I’m beyond despair.
Let me fuck you before I write the greatest love poem ever scribbled.
Will you let me love you tonight in a quicksand pit of daisies?
Why won’t you even say Maybe?
What do you want besides my dick, money, and charm?
I want to fuck you, can’t you see that?
I want to see angels applaud our act.
I want Elvis to resurrect in his necrophiliac glory.
I want the Lone Ranger’s silver bullet to resurface.
I want to fuck you with your husband’s blessing.
I want to sell my heart for your best weapon.
I won’t tell anybody how you just lay there on the burning haystack.
I won’t brag to your other boyfriends.
I won’t tell them you were one polluted pussy.
I won’t be disgusting as a loaded jock strap.
I’ll do anything for your sunken treasure.
Anything, anything.
Telephone me, telegraph me, e-mail me, rent a billboard, say you’ll rub my back,
write me a poem before you let me fuck you.
Talk to me, say Yes, I want to fuck you too, because I’m lonely,
because I’m horny.
Because I’m human. Fuck me when I’m not looking, Fuck me like a stuttering
staccato. Saunter me ala Astaire. But yes, I want to fuck you, too.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, forever and ever and ever and ever.
Yes, tell me I’m yours, tell me I’m the greatest since Ali,
Lie to me, but lie down next to me,
Let me guide you to forty-one symphony screams,
Let me show you who God really is, how big his prick is,
Serenade me as I’m rocking you to “Let it Bleed,”
Close your eyes directed toward the galaxies as I’m wildcatting you,
Vanish in a flash of invisible light and join all the great lovers of eternity
And come back to me as I’m ready to come,
Tell me I’m tremendous, terrific, sincere, sensational, mellifluous, tell me
you love me
And I’ll never, ever, ever again say to you
I want to fuck you.

Kenneth James Crist

Car Fulla “C-Word”

Most women I’ve met
don’t care for
the word “cunt”.

They call
it the “C-Word” because
they find it abhorrent.

So, I’ve got this car full
of “C-Word”, five in all
and we’re all good friends,
fuck-buddies, you might say.

We’re out for the evening, and
the ladies are done up in
dresses and heels and jewelry,
suntanned legs and low-cut bras.

Perfume and lotion and “C-Word”
spray, or as George Carlin called it
“Sprunt”. It adds a sharp tang to the
air, a poon-tang, one might say.

We do a few clubs and I watch my
booze intake. I wanna be able to
perform later, when the time is
right and the “C-Words” come out.

Later, when they’re all half in the
bag, I take them to a spot I know
that’s isolated enough so we won’t
be interrupted.

Off come panties and other
lacy things until everyone’s
comfortable in their naughtiness and
Sally is the first, because she had the
most to drink and her “C-Word”
is the hottest.

I take her standing up,
leaning against the hood of the
car and she comes very quickly and
then pukes, because Sally always
drinks too much but never passes
out until she’s gotten a little.

Debbie is next and the rule is I
don’t get to come until they all
get their turn at me.

We do it on a blanket
while the others watch
and get hotter still, all
but Sally, who passed out.

Lisa is waiting and she mounts
me as soon as Debbie is done,
and she peels off her dress because
she likes her tits in my hands the
whole time and she yells when she
pops her cookies and everyone else

Then Carla.

Oh My God
Carla, who says “Oh My God” all
the time I’m fucking her loose,
six-kids snatch.

It’s a chore, holding
back now, but I manage because I’m
waiting for Sandy, who always
gets to be last.

We do it sitting in the
front seat, passenger side and
she is the one.

In her forties, she’s
tight as a teenager and frantic with
desire, and so she gets the big
blast, the load, the money shot and
in ten minutes I’m ready again.

Somebody wake up Sally…

Jonathan Hine

The Farthest Fields are all Flowers

the ashes were blown
from his bones &
swept into the
trailing winds of a
passing 18 wheeler
yet he careened along
a continuous mass
overlaid onto the
slowly spreading
dreamscape of
maligned highways
& abandoned farmhouses

Colin James

Unremarkable Men

Did I wake you up?
There are two ways of finding out.
If we sound like we are in a tunnel
you are still asleep. Otherwise
relationships are like ocean waves,
you try to go with the current
but generally there is not enough sex
and you end up on dry land.
Whose fault is that? Nobodies.
As dry as a dead man’s crotch. Nobodies.
Not including decomposition.
Looks like there is a little movement
down near the Bay Of Biscay.
Oh, I should be at your beck and call?
The crew will be alert and diving from the mast
trying to impress the locals.
Early in his career, Marlon Brando thought
the best butter came from Tahiti.
Not yet acquainted with the German Dutch.

Patrick Moore

Tragedy From Behind the Trees

we headed northbound,
stuck in heavy traffic,
drunk on silver bullets
somewhere outside the
Menominee Indian Reservation
when a small plane came crashing
down right before our eyes
near the side of the highway
and while the black smoke came
billowing up from behind
the cardboard treeline,
people could have been burning
alive inside that plane for all I knew
but strangely, two women in a car
next to my left stared at me in
revulsion as if I were a leper
with a bell around my neck
and they randomly decided
to call me a creeper.
I didn’t fully understand
what it all meant except that:
we’re all mysterious creatures;
gluttonous with triviality, heedless
to the duckpondfull of tragedies
happening from behind the trees.

David Boski

Rhetorical Question

after sitting there
to their tedious conversation
where they relentlessly insulted
all men
all walks of life
referring to them with names
such as:
amongst other things
while suggesting that
it was impossible
for them to find
even remotely
worth dating
in this
big city of ours
I finally
took a sip of my beer
and proposed
a simple question –
“did you ever think that,
perhaps you’re a cunt?”

Jason Hardung

Poet Fucker

I slept next to her
in the same bed for a week.
Each time I looked over
I became disgusted
at all her lies, the guys she fucked to be a better poet.
“Even my cock doesn’t have that much magic,” I told her. “Keep writing.”
The way she breathed, the nocturnal language she spoke,
the way she kicked her legs like somebody running from home
blamed it on insomnia, never mentioned the Adderall
then would get up and paint her nails over and over
her eyeballs were about to fall from the sockets
and her voice, more metal than bus brakes at 5am.
I couldn’t watch anymore.
I turned the other hip towards the window
watched hustlers in long coats work tourists in Pershing Square,
crack heads strutting like pigeons
scanning for dropped rocks on the sidewalk,
a man wore a garbage bag as a tutu
pirouetting for a god that never answered his prayers,
a Chinese woman crouched on the sidewalk to take a shit
wiping with a brochure a missionary just handed her.
I wished I was out there
where the insane
know exactly what they are.