Modern poets are sissies,
limp quilled English majors
scratching flowers and
giving blowjobs to cats
Where is our Keats, our Eliot, our E.E.C.
Who’s minding the wheel?
New-Formalist-Post-Modern-Pansies
Where’s Charles Fucking Bukowski
There aren’t five good lines anywhere
So cancel your subscriptions,
it’s all masturbation anyway
You want real? Get drunk,
crawl puking through an alley
Go fuck somebody—anybody!
But don’t read modern poetry
i had an old teacher
tell me to say what
needs to be said
with the fewest
amount of words
possible
i have taken that
advice all my life
there’s no need for
flowery language
when a well timed
fuck off always
does the trick
She was fifteen going on
a Sex in the City age, three gold
rings in her right ear, a clown’s-
head charm bracelet around each
wrist, and a blue butterfly tattoo
on her butt, no one in her family
had seen nor, ever would, if she
had her way. “My stepdad would
freak if he knew. Especially, as he
paid for it.” She told one of her
boy toys who was so stoned all he
could manage was an obligatory,
“Bummer,” his reaction to all negatives
like his all purpose “Cool,” for all
the positive things in life. Like
beer blasts and pill parties, unprotected
sex in beachfront houses while parents
were away at orgies of their own,
though they called them something else.
All the like-minded she-witches in
her coven had matching tats on
their ass as a kind of blood kinship
thing that would forever unite them
in sisterhood until the next falling out,
next sex text one of them would send,
of one of their number, to like, everyone
on earth. Something sent as a kind of
joke, under the influence of alcohol
and E, barely remembered after, until
the message went, like viral, and the girl
in question thought razor blades
in the bath was the only solution
to an otherwise insoluble problem.
And it might have been, were it not
for the kid brother seeing the text,
and barging into that room no adult
would dare to go.
Accused of bullying, violating
sacred trusts, and child porn laws,
she stonewalls authorities, insists she is
above all this childish stuff and maybe
she was, in a way, if someone hadn’t
almost died.
“The only brown hair on my body
is the hair on my head,”
the girl in line in front of me
at Chipotle told her two companions,
another girl and a boy,
all three college students,
her tone matter-of-fact,
nothing suggestive in her voice.
She might have been talking
about the literature exam
or the biology lab experiment.
“Thanks for sharing,”
the other girl’s sarcastic response,
but I couldn’t help thinking
of the hair elsewhere
on the brown-haired girl’s body.
Blonde? Black? Red?
I wasn’t sure if I’d tag that
with an LOL or a TMI,
but I remember my Facebook friend
Ramona posting last night:
“Anxious about the biopsy
performed on my left boob
this morning.”
the fourth of july
has come and gone
no fireworks around
here
too many people still
dealing with the fallout
from the memorial day
tornadoes
souls still in shock
waiting for a check
from the insurance
from the government
from the god they
prayed to their
entire lives
each passing day
is another nail into
the coffin
of course, the local
news will find the
crazy woman who
has the same ceiling
that has collapsed twice
once from the tornado
and once from all the rain
she’ll smile into the camera
and tell everyone it’s going
to get better, we just need
to stay strong
i believe they call that
the definition of insanity
Singing Arias, by John D Robinson
20 pages, Analog Submission Press
New, unpublished poems. Limited run of 25 handmade copies, publishing July 31st.
For preorders, please contact analogsubmission@gmail.com
Games are my thing
I could go all night
Yesterday, lube and beads
Today, its handcuffs and keys,
What do you think,
want to bite?
I must warn you though
If you fail to meet my needs
There are consequences
You definetly will not like
Okay then, get ready to play
here are my rules
They are really quite simple:
Keep your eyes on me
As I spread myself wide
Watch my pussy dripping wet,
isn’t it gleaming?
My hand descends
As I separate the folds
Sticky juices are inviting you in
See my fingers that work with skill
I play myself
As if a priceless violin
Jerk it, come on jerk it you fuck!
Then just before, stop yourself from spilling
And then stick it right in
How long can you hold yourself back
Once my cunt swallows your dick?
Wait first for my explosion
If you want any chance at satisfaction
Play my game, play with me
Can you be a man and not cum
Until told?
While I tighten on you and lock you in
You attempt to hold it back
You don’t want to be like a teen
Your body wants to betray you
As I game you so wickedly
Your torture makes me high
So I cheat just a little
It’s like you are meditating
As if you are trying to sustain
When suddenly a finger pierces
your ass, sliding up to your surprise
My nail finds your button
massaging you to a frenzy
I laugh, oh how I shriek
As I watch your face betrayed
It’s so far beyond priceless!
You cannot hold back now
Your seed will scatter wide
But as you prepare to shoot
My foot pushes you back
And out of me
just before you can complete
I watch in delight as you spill
Not inside of me as you planned
But just there on the sheets
To bad for you, it doesn’t feel nearly as good
When you cum on a mattress instead
of my insides
What a disappointment
You are no man
As you sit there humiliated
Crying in silent grief
Don’t fret little baby
Here’s my consolation
Shove my soaking panties
In your mouth, taste what you couldn’t receive
Then slip them on you girlie girl
Your journey towards becoming a pussy
Is now complete
remember, love, remember
I warned you at the start
Games have rules
and you already knew
That in my bed
I like to play
And my amusements end
The way I desire
In this case
With you losing
Your most precious
masculinity
young people,
they think nobody has the
same thoughts as them
they take great pride in some made up
originality
as if really nobody ever thought up
scenarios of themselves descending
some rope from some helicopter and
dropping in the middle of enemy forces and
starting to shoot around, all movie like ‘an shit
and killing all the bad guys while not
taking one bullet
One man army
or there’s those other thoughts
of being simply the greatest at some
sport and being admired and envied for it
also, the thoughts of sex in all its forms
the thoughts of mindless violence
of saving the day
of being somewhere else and doing something else
all kinds of thoughts
and all the minds who think them label them as original
but they’re not original
they’re every young person’s thoughts
and me,
I also have thoughts I consider original
I think of how it is to be old
pretty much every damn day
I think of me being old and dried up and weak
and waiting for death
it’s not a very pleasant thought
especially for someone in their twenties
but it’s my way of labeling my thoughts original
maybe in some wheel chair
with a nurse pushing me from behind no kids
no family
no fortune
no achievements
a life wasted
death watching from above
mockingly
and myself looking up at it
smiling
Motherfucker, you think you got me
but little do you know that
while I was able, while I was more lively than
a rotting carrot
I defied you by ripping apart pieces of me
that will stick with the world
long after I’m gone
Oh, they might not be great pieces or even good ones
but behind they remain as you take me away
and all of them branded with my name
It’s through them that I am
immortal
and there’s nothing you can do about it
great, good or bad,
you cannot kill a poet
Sit / Let me hear you wheeze / Don’t blurt
words that mean diddly to me / Give me
the growl / Noises from within / What do
you reckon when you gaze this face? This
map of creases / A display of disgrace / If
I proclaimed that I wasn’t afraid to put my
hands in the dirt, to love until it hurts, would
you believe me? If I told you the reversed
was true, would you still hang around to see?
See, I’ve been wearing these tattered wears for
years / Countless times they have betrayed
me / Controlled by some ill-fated compass /
Moving up, south, right, west / It’s a dangerous
game to go with the brain instead of that silly
thing inside yr chest / And yes, I know / This
hat / It’s really not destined for me / But if
I can be him for a minute or two then surely
I can become closer to you / Don’t bother
trying to tally the rings rung under these two
tired eyes / I’m merely on memoir eight of
the promised nine lives / If only you weren’t
too slow to recognize / That these tales I
tell are only tall stories / A series renewal of
short white lies / Still, I am thankful / For yr
stupidity / And my simple histories / I hope
you shut up and lay down with me / Because
the coffee is weak / And so are the knees.
if my pain is
supposed to
be a white ball
of healing light,
then what is this
red death i taste
upon my tongue
i gave up on god
when god gave
up on me
the fools will look
at me and wonder
while some sage
will stumble by,
drinking out of a
brown paper bag,
giving me the look
that he understands
completely
and the laughing
man will dance
in a thunderstorm
asking for the
lightning to strike
once again
tempt fate young
man
learn to play the
saxophone and
let that lonely tune
drift into the ether
soon a strange woman
will saunter into your
life and you’ll understand
pain, love and why lawyers
make so much damn money
on divorce cases
Horror Sleaze Trash 