Saw a stranger today by the blood pool
He had that sunkissed-moontwist-killer kool
Bats surrounded; desire swings upside down
Day and night would surely fingerpaint the town
Yeah-No, no, I didn’t dare follow this time-
Paper thin soles only run on rebel rhyme
‘Cuz I’ve got my own kink of killer kool too
Don’t need another ghost talkin’ bout bitch boo
Mother horror wasn’t always horrible.
It started when I fucked that boy.
The tree was a nude model taking up arms
And we sludged oil on copper.
I count her age spots like she counted my baby teeth,
Bootsole-sized rosettes liver hands and neck.
Poachers band below her eyes,
Species royalty wreathed in purple storms.
Wellbutrin to fix me well.
Mother horror’s idea
After she red hands me
Plucking feathers from her ostrich purse.
With notebook and Bic
The good doctor strums his dick.
I say, father was eaten by blackbirds
The size of gas pumps
Mother horror
And I
Left him to cool like an apple pie
On the windowsill
Our pains thinned
In a solvent of flames.
“You have a hemorrhoid,” Geringer commented,
his finger probing my anus,
wiggling around like a burrowing worm.
It sounded like an accusation.
“I know,” I said.
At least I’d suspected it.
“Otherwise, your prostate’s fine.”
He handed me a wad of tissues
to mop up the lubricating jelly.
“Any travel plans for the summer?”
My annual urological exam.
I marveled at how mundane
he made it all sound.
That tyrants, genocidaires, and serial killers
Are always erect
Is a truth as big as a temple.
That gurus, friars, and priests
Have it elevated to the Lord
Is a reality that, in victory or submission
They place demons and sins.
This is how we read and see it
In dictators who rely on their cocks
To commit truly obscene actions
That cause so much harm around the globe:
Gaza, Syria, Yemen, Afghanistan
Guantanamo, Ukraine, El Salvador.
If our ancestors
Made sacrifices to Mars, Jupiter, Saturn
To the Sun and the Moon
To Satan, “the most beautiful bastard”
Today, our rulers
Sacrifice human beings, attack them, and kill them
As if they were masterless dogs
On the altar of hatred and repression.
Thanks to their erection
The capitalists, the traffickers of dreams
And arms factories
Rejoice seeing the earth
Is flooded with their joy and spermatozoa.
-Let the whole world sing joyfully, they exclaim:
A genocidal and a fascist dictator
Have been reborn; they can be heard by their clamor
And by the loud noise they make
By braying, no, by speaking
For they are illiterate beyond salvation.
From a tree came a monkey
From a monkey creation came to us humans.
Death will never be defeated
For death attracts death
When humanity shares in its victory or defeat.
Eternal novelty! Ha, ha, ha.
Death has not lost its sting.
From his fly as he stands up, erect
This gives man new life
To be conceived in those cunts
Bounty of defeated love
And glory among asses turned
Into an expiatory sacrifice
Of lustful slavery.
That peace reigns among men
Is a great lie
For death walks beside us
Joyfully waiting
For our last ejaculation in the banquet hall
Full of murdered guests
Or killed in the back
Who celebrate the tyrant, the genocidal
The serial killer
Always erect.
as if any of this was
planned
ordained
as if this was
what she wanted all along
every day is tired
in a way she understands
hundred year old trees
can be tired
like the salt in the ocean
is tired
like how the last kiss
before the coffin closes
is tired
she walks when she must
which is far more
than she’d like
because she’s tired
the streets seem perfunctory
there’s a bustle in the sky
in the passersby’s
collective obnoxious breath
she can’t imagine what
could possibly be so important
as to deny the darkness
that they all must see
they must see
because it’s so obvious
it’s all around
it’s in everything
it’s of everything
and even it’s tired
tired in the way the sun
grows wary with each moon
keys fitting in locks
like warm deception
tumblers tumbling
granting admittance
like a benevolent hooded figure
before the gallows
she sacrifices herself
upon the altar of life
every day
and everything’s getting tired
O Hannah
you spell your name with two of everything.
It’s the summer of the comet.
I want to vibrate like an angel
and you’re reading a book
that isn’t a gift
for anyone over thirty.
Everything tends towards a conclusion that doesn’t occur.
I have no defense for poesy.
Does anyone know how to get to the Bop House?
The whole shit is breaking down
and my refrigerator isn’t ready for riot season.
John Maus has a new single called I Hate Antichrist.
What do we talk about when we talk about luxury?
You’re reading A Poem for Vipers when lifeguards
pull a dead swimmer
from the water off Hampton Beach.
The weather is beautiful.
I eat aspirin for dinner and drink Rolling Rock.
Karen Reed is framed like a Nantucket sunset.
O Hannah
we lost two of everything.
On the rooftop
of an apartment on Ashworth Ave
we watch a cumshot
dance on the tip
of a
telescope.
Gumersinda and me, Sisebuto
Loved hiding in stables and corrals
To kiss and touch each other
When we played with other boys and girls
To “Three ships at sea, and three more are searching.”
Gumersinda, I dare say
Was already, at the age of seven, very clever.
She told me she sucked her little brother’s cock
And that she saw, from time to time
Her parents having great, wonderful sex
Although her father would come out exhausted
And her mother would be overjoyed
For she would exclaim:
“Thank goodness I got rid of your father Aldovrando’s
Excited panting like a giant animal against my ass.”
She would ask her mother Ambrosia:
-But, Mother, how do you do that?
The mother would respond:
-My daughter, if I don’t let the male penetrate me
He’ll go whoring and he can fuck and beat me
I’ll get any kind of ass disease.
Besides, men, like males
They go to the mob with the females
Like donkeys with the she donkeys
Turned into demons who only seek
The food of our cunts.
Sometimes, Gumersinda and me, on this or that day
We would separate from the group of friends
And we would go to the shepherd’s hut
Which is located in the furthest part of the Eras de la Carraleja
And, there, she would lift up her dress and show me
Her honey-colored colt with a few hairs like a mussel
Instantly opening my fly
Taking out the little bird along with the eggs
Putting this one in the heaven of her palate.
I would lean on her and say:
-No, not Gumersinda.
Let’s play the same old game.
She answered me like she was sucking on a candy:
-Wait until I swallow the divine substance
That inspired so many women with beautiful love poems.
Then we played the same game we both played:
You put little pearls of love in my pussy
From those fishing beads you took from your father
And I’ll light a match, placed
In the little hole of your glans, without fear
So that it may illuminate my love and open for you
Like that flower of Eve that Adam fell in love with
In the Garden of Love
Which, without a doubt, so displeased our God
Just as we displease, now, Bacchus’s donkey, the shepherd
Who sends us to flight caused by the braying
Of the two of them.
What sons of bitches!
Wherever there’s been conflict,
warriors have directed humorous
barbs at their foes by scrawling
‘dedications’ on ammunition
aimed at those being attacked
even though the dedicatees
would never be able to read them.
Bombs and shells that rain
down on Russia and Ukraine
will have “up yours Putin”
or “swallow that Zelenskyy”
or similar phrases on them.
Second World War Photos
in museums show sailors
chalking “take that Tirpitz”
on torpedoes, and airmen scribbling
“Happy Easter Adolph” on bombs.
Archaeology has confirmed
humans really haven’t evolved
at all in this respect in the last
three thousand years. About
eighty sling stones were found
at the site of the 41-40 BCE siege
of Perugia where Octavian’s army
had opposed the forces of Mark
Antony’s brother, Lucius Antonius.
Each sling stone, termed a glans,
was made of lead or clay and inscribed
with a pointed, often salacious, message
by the brutal and licentious soldiery:
“I’m searching for Octavian’s arse”
“Bald Lucius Antonius and Fulvia
prepare your arses”, as well as
“I’m aiming for Fulvia’s clitoris”,
each suggestively playing
with the double meaning of glans
and so, its intended targets.
Some are simply inscribed
“Take this, Octavian”; others:
“Greetings Octavian, cocksucker”,
deriding his sexual proclivities.
Mechanics tune me
Oily fingers probe my cunt
Rainfall slicks the roads
The cop’s cock is long
I suck it through the window
A deer leaps ahead.
Cum glows on my face
Dew glistens in the tall grass
My tongue licks my lips
I suck to climax
Dawn is breaking the dark clouds
My throat sings with joy
My neighbor is rough
His weedy lawn needs mowing
His cock rams my ass
My boss promotes me
Sunlight kisses his bellly
He straddles my face
I love big truckers
Hauling goods in sun and rain
My cunt craves their loads
Their spunk’s hot and thick
Lifeguards in the summer pool
They surround their bitch
Naked, and with an erect prick
As Nature brought me into the world
Before the mirror of the bedroom closet
Where I sleep alone
And I lick my cock like a donkey
I soon learned that I was a legendary hero
One of those who founded towns, villages, and cities
Monasteries and convents
And that I was worthy of a peculiar adventure
Like that of “putting a pike in Flanders”
Or like that of fucking and raping indigenous people or slaves
Indians or mestizos
Like those discoverers of America
Who didn’t disappoint the donkeys
Doing everything possible
To surpass the quadrupeds.
A moth landed on my glans, saying:
-You’re going to earn the greatest appreciation of men
With your shearwater-hunting crossbow.
March to Europe and the Channel Islands
Not to America, Africa, Asia, or Oceania
To catechize indigenous people with the prick
For it is useful, fitting, and just
That you be part of the praise of men, and their Nobel Prize.
Then, I marched to Europe
Taking, at Atocha Station, Madrid
A train called Puerta del Sol
Which dropped me off in Irún to transfer
On an Express train to Paris.
But I made a mistake, taking a freight train
Which was packed, in its carriages, with Moorish emigrants
And Spanish emigrants.
In Paris, I took a train that took me to Amsterdam, Holland
Where I was to place my pick in Flanders
Touching the sublime matter of the braying orgasm
Snatching from the great lips
Of the whores’ cunts in the Red Light District
Passages and historical news
Of great fuckers who had passed through here.
What was my displeasure that
When I found myself forced
To ask my current whore, in French:
-Que penses-tu de ma bite ?
-What do you think of my prick?
She, without hesitation, answered me:
-Comme eux tous.
-Like all of them.
How upsetting, my goodness¡
The glorious ideas of the hero of the Discovery of America
Of the Ass Crusades, in Jerusalem
Of Spanish Independence against Napoleon
Of the Silk Road
Fell to the ground.
And worst of all
What made me most unhappy
Is that she showed no interest
In me making anal love to her
Which is better and more effective in making known
True Love that enters through the ass
A subject only known theoretically
To our misfortune
Although she falsely told me, as she opened her legs
Totally naked:
-Here you have a vast field to spread out
From the ears to the tailbone.
Everything is at your disposal.
Now you can put that pike in Flanders!
Upon arriving at the Rembrandt Hotel
Where I was staying
I went to the bathroom mirror
Contemplating my prick
Which, at that moment
Was brimming with erudition
Protesting its beautiful qualities
Its honor and its glory
Which, in a couple of days
It would show in the Channel Islands:
In Guernsey, where Victor Hugo
Revealed the value of a Bray of Love
And in Jersey, where, in its banks, kings and rich people
Stash the money earned from slavery
Prostitution and drugs.
Horror Sleaze Trash 