PEOPLE YOU ARE LOOKING FOR

People you are looking for
The land of salvation
Well fucked up you got it
Although you raise your eyes to the sun

Not the Covid vaccine
Nor any other vaccine
Will conquer Death
Since the land that I promise
Flows fire and lava
Even if you plant your skin in it

Your thirst for life
Drink in springs of gall
And with each step that you advance
Battered you will rest
In my cold hugs

This is your inheritance
Of dust or ash on the head
Or in my land meek
Being your Word and verb
The cold darkness

Slapped

“Slap my pussy,” she said,
as I kneeled above her, 
staring down at her naked body.
I happily obliged her request
and later on, as I was about to fall asleep
I thought of all the other men out there.
men who made more money than me
men who had better jobs
and better cars
men who had wives
and men who owned homes
men who were nicer than me 
smarter than me
funnier than me
better looking than me
tall men, short men, fat men, thin men,
muscular men who loved working out.
all kinds of men from all over the world
who went to bed that night
without having slapped a pussy…
and I felt good 
and momentarily 
everything seemed all right.

Missing

I miss the dude who drank a pint of Jim Bean
on summer weekends at the beach,
not by himself necessarily.
He had friends, was willing to share, 
and rose like Lazarus from the sand,
fresh from the grave, with no place to go.
Life was easier then. Less demands.
Less expectations. 

I miss the dude who loved comic books,
wrestling, horror movies, and Heavy Metal,
the glory days of VHS and CDs.
When you could smoke in clubs and restaurants, 
when kids went to school and the worst
they had to deal with were bullies, 
instead of being target practice.

This dude drives 45 minutes to work
and at least 45 minutes back.
He hates his job, tolerates his co-workers,
and barely survives his daily drive
without inflicting physical violence
on his fellow commuters.
God knows he thinks about it often enough,
but his road rage remains internalized. 

This dude spends his time analyzing stocks,
worrying about the cost of being a homeowner –
dead trees to be cut down, house to be painted,
the fridge dying a slow death,
etc, etc, fucking etc. 

This dude scrolls through the tits and asses
on Instagram instead of fucking his wife.
He masturbates when he can maintain an erection.
He blames it on his high blood pressure
and means to reduce salt, get more exercise,
switch to red wine instead of bourbon,
and finally see a damn doctor.

This dude…
He sucks.

Nice to Meet You

After we met

I thought of my hand wrapped around your throat

& how you’d close your eyes and beg for pressure

I pictured you crawling my figure
Positioning
Preying and pawing and slithering

I want to watch you thrash

Brand me with your claws
Fill my pores with your sweat
Stick your taste in me

Make me breathe the air that doesn’t deserve you anymore

The pleasure’s all mine

The Psychonaut Discusses Life’s Goals

“A quaint Victorian term
widely used in the fifties
to describe a woman who couldn’t
have an orgasm during sex,”
the Psychonaut explains to the stranger
he’s just met at the cocktail party.
Was his name Jim? John?

“So this woman, writing
under the name of Constance Newland,
describes her participation in an experiment
using LSD to overcome ‘specific neuroses.’
Her neurosis? Her self-described ‘frigidity.’”

The Psychonaut takes a long drink
from his gin and tonic,
waiting for Jim – or John – to comment,
but he stands there transfixed,
like a cat watching a squirrel
behind a pane of glass.
So the Psychonaut goes on.

“‘For the first time, under LSD,
I found pleasure in sex,
rather than terror and pain,’
she writes in her 1962 book,
My Self and I.

“Psychedelic research has demonstrated
LSD can enhance sensations,
the pleasure involved
in touching and being touched.

“Which makes me think of the Kama Sutra,
the ancient Indian Sanskrit text
that says desire, sexuality and emotional fulfillment
amount to one of the proper goals in life.”

Oedipus Jesus

He was born
to a virgin whore,
who convinced
her own husband
that GOD came 
inside of her
in a threesome
with an angel.

At the age
of thirty-three,
GOD’s rape baby
found his best friend,
a prostitute with
the very same
Christian name
as his mother,
who believed
he was the 
biological child
of the almighty
omniscient
sexual deviant.

Good Ol’ Times

Of course
I’ve had good times,
I told him,
squizing my brain
for a given memory
While wiping my chapped lips 
with the back of my hand
Booze and bullshit spilled
from my misaligned jaw

It starts like this:
You grab a bottle of wine
and your favorite dolls 
Going off to dabble
in the dark arts

This I can say,
I’ve had much fun
actually,
most of which i sadly
don’t remember at all

But i can tell you,
for example,
about the feeling of lying down
in a field of sunflowers,
as magnificient 
as a Van Gogh painting

Or swimming naked in the rain
upon a murky lake
My man watching me enraptured
as the reeds lightly whip
my bareskin butt
He’s too afraid to jump in
(of something entering his meatus)
Funny, isn’t it?
I sure thought so

I know this isn’t wishful thinking
’cause I’m not much of a romantic
But man, these pills fucked me up

What about trying ice skating
for the first time totally drunk 
because some dude had his birthday 
and he wanted to surprise me
We even went to play pool
with a swinger couple after

I realized that night
I sucked balls

And yet, my very likely best nights
Come as axes to my skull
and the fuckening steeps somewhere
between the second and third bottle
Balls-in is always a good idea

My strongest memories though
fall between arousal and horror

Like the image of some guy
Can’t even remember his name
Washing his face 
with my blood
after fucking me hard
in the vintage chair
of a run-down Belgrade
hotel room

I think,
his magic mushrooms 
had gone bad, but
his sphincter was quite mighty

It happens to fall 
and break your nose
sometimes
when you drink from
green bottles offered free 

Me, I’m lying in my piss
in a university bathroom
Which, to be honest, seems kinda odd 
and not much my style anyway

More like a fistful of shit 
from a trans Russian’s ass
and more good ol’ times
yet to come

a poem for all the dads out there

it was summertime 
she told me she was a virgin 
i went over to her house 
in the kitchen 
she gave me a cherry
with all 10 of my fingers 
i popped it 
it gushed 
she walked up to me
got on her knees 
took my fingers in her mouth 
her dad walked in on us 
what the fuck he said
i had to leave
he said that kind of stuff is not allowed in my house, son 
i told him not to call me son, dad
he said don’t call me dad, boy 
as i walked out the front door 
i turned back and said 
ok old man
he came after me 
he started wrestling me on his front lawn 
my girl 
she was screaming 
stoppit dad!
he had me in a deeep headlock 
tap! he said 
never
i could feel myself losing consciousness 
but i could feel his strength weakening 
stoppit ur hurting him my girl screamed
but i gave her the thumbs up 
i got out of the headlock 
i told her watch this 
and i belly to belly suplexed him 
and he went unconscious

and ever since then 
she called me daddy

True Compassion

For some reason,
She took offense
At him calling her
A psycho bitch.

So,
She bashed him
In the head
With the plate
Of macaroni
And cheese.

It made quite
A colorful mess,
Mixed with the
Gushing blood
And all.

Still,
He thanked her
For bandaging
The head wound,
Taking that as
A sign of true
Compassion.

When actually,
She just didn’t
Want to go
To jail.

path

dumb. goal-post dumb. 
he didn’t have a learning disability.
he wasn’t let down by the education system.
well, at least no more than the rest of us. 
no. he was just dumb. a big dumb fuck.
he farted when he walked.
he’d come farting across the school yard 
farting footsteps 
and grab you:

cum sniffer! he’d accuse. sniff your cum, you, don’t you?
or:
mum perv! perv on your mum, you, don’t you
and:
dog wanker! wank your dog off, you, don’t you? 

his chin against yours because he wanted a kiss 
and the only way he could get one
was to find an excuse to kick off on you 

and it was in maths class, or science, one of them 
and Mr Harbour had nipped out to put some Irish in his coffee 

and you don’t know what happened:
you saw the big dumb fuck 
sitting on his own there 
mouth breathing 
and you thought of all the farts 
brewing inside of him 
and it suddenly really pissed you off.
you were bored. you were so fucking bored.
bored of him and bored of school
and the two of them together? same time, same place?
nah, that was too much, mate. 
so you went over 
and you said:

YOU sniff YOUR cum. YOU perv on YOUR mum. YOU wank YOUR dog. YOU sniff
YOUR cum after wanking off YOUR dog of a mum. it’s obvious. 
that’s why you accuse everyone else of doing those things. so fuck off. fuck
the fuck 
off
and he hit you
and you went down 

and you were lying on the floor of the maths room, or the science lab, one of them
declaring: I hit a nerve! it must be true!
and you could see him standing over you
with his leg pulled back at the knee 
like he was going to kick you
but he was hesitating:

even that big dumb fuck 
had the foresight to know 
that if he started kicking you he wouldn’t be able to stop,
but then his eyes went glassy 
as he saw his whole shit life before him,
realising he was probably going to end up in prison anyway 
and his big mushy face seemed to 
relax
as he decided: fuck it 
might as well get a head-start on my shitty prison life 
by getting some revenge here and now, eh?

when Mr Harbour came back 
with his cheeks all shiny 
and yelped. 

the big dumb fuck got chucked out of school. 
or he was just suspended, and forgot to come back. who knows.
but you were looking over your back for a while.
and then 
well, shit,
you were dragged into adulthood
and he kind of faded into the back of your mind
until you forgot about him completely, like 
that nugget of data devoted to him 
just fell out of your ear one day
when you were 
sitting in the dentist’s waiting room 
or fisting someone’s grandma,
as you do. 

and you just got 
this job
bringing the deliveries in 
at the frozen food place in town,

and who’s working alongside you?

no, you think, looking out the corner of your eye
as you strip a pallet.
no. surely not. how’d I end up in the same place as him?

then he puts down a box 
and comes farting over:
his farts, matured like cheese,
slapping the warehouse walls …

you brace yourself 
for another kicking.
for the lifetime of kicking 
that he’s backed up all this time.
probably got lots of practice on his prison bitch. 

you brace yourself 

and the big dumb fuck, 
he leans over you
and he sniffs his finger 
when he asks:
cover my shift Tuesday? 
gotta walk my mum’s dog.