In Control

I don’t care what I’m re-enacting
By letting you
Stick your dick
Inside me
What psychodrama
I’m re-staging
Or maybe
Just rehearsing
For an hour yet to come

All that matters
Is what I see
And touch
And feel
Your cock
Huge
Hard
Godlike
And your hands
Pinning me down
Making me behave
Annihilating my will

I’m performing
Acting out
I don’t know what I’m up to
But I do know
That it’s not you
It’s me
Who has
The greater urge

Fuck me hard
As hard as you can
Drag me to the bottom
Put me in control
Of all my rapists

Detritus Of The Drunken Night,
by Ian Lewis Copestick
122 pages

Detritus Of The Drunken Night is the debut collection of outstanding poet, Ian Lewis Copestick. It is a book filled with gutwrenching epiphanies about the ups and downs of everyday life, written as only a true poet could pen.

PREVIEW/PURCHASE HERE

The Lamia

“A man who’s drinking is always dreaming
about a man who’ll listen.”

Kamel Daoud, The Meursault Investigation

The men she hung with all had
the scent of failure, half-baked on
alcohol and self-defeat, simply
waiting for someone to turn up
the flame, someone like her, who
would gladly supply the match.
A few dates with her and they were
inextricably joined at the hip like
sick Siamese twins or hosts to
parasites, drunk driving home from
bars as if it were a new kind of
On-the-road full contact sport
anyone with a BAC of 2.0 and above
could play. Despite a diet of Budweiser
and red wine, she remained lean
and wiry, only slightly withered
around the edges where skin met
bone as if she’d been left out in the rain
too long and dried off in a gale force
wind. Sunbathing topless pictures
of her were conversation pieces
along the bar all the regulars
tired to fake enthusiasm for, though
mostly they could have cared less,
felt the snaps were meant more as
relationship auditions than titillation
knowing her current man was a bottle or
two short of being used up and returned
for recycling or for the deposit, if she
could get one. Some guys compared
her to a vampire in clogs who might last
for centuries or until someone drove
a stake through her heart for the good
of all mankind. it was likely that would
happen anytime soon but it should.

fear and loathing at the hibachi restaurant

the suburban goth girl
with the blue hair
and purple eyeshadow
didn’t know you could refuse the side salad
so it sits there coagulating
under the hot lights
as the blonde at the table next to us
drunkenly shouts across the room to her pals
something about ruining her new shoes
from dropping some of her third drink on them
something about her husband’s birthday
and the president being close to god
she’s had three sexy ladies tonight
and if she doesn’t vomit
she says there might be room for a fourth
and
wink
wink
a special surprise for hubby when they get home
as everyone around her
laughs and laughs
doing the puritan end-of-the-work-week rage
and i wonder what a goth girl
with blue hair and purple eyeshadow
is doing in a hibachi restaurant
on a friday night
other than tilting the perfect picture
making things a tad askew
contributing another food waste in wasteful america
but this big, dumb colossus of stolen land
is full of surprises
and growing up in small cities
breeds a kind of useless rebellion
and plastic discontent
that can only be found at the mall
you can make mountains out of molehills
in the knowing light the chain store’s come-hither stare
i wonder what i’m doing here
hundreds of miles from home
anchoring the dead weight of citizenry
unnecessarily sober at a hibachi restaurant
stuck inside of buffalo, new york
with the brooklyn blues again
coming off a panic attack on the i-81
where i couldn’t breathe
and had to pull the car over to the side of the road
as idiot patriots with bumper sticker prophesies
zipped by me
going 90 in a 65
but across from me the hibachi chef
he knows my fate
he’s squirting sake into the mouths of babes
red faced business men
with their necks too fat for their oxfords
frat boys with their hats on backwards
greasing up their dates
for their own patriarchal surprise later
a sea of jaws undulating, filling up with all of that booze
spilling out of their mouths onto the table
because people can never get enough
of the free stuff
the chef asks me if i want a taste
i want to tell him that i think anxiety is just another word for america
i want to tell him that i’m thinking art is dead
how i’m ready to capitulate
move to the burbs
buy a car and complain about the traffic
hoist that fucking flag every morning
learn to live for the weekend
and how to love parades
each a hibachi dinner with my wife and good pals
each and every single friday night
buy the boss a christmas gift
and learn how to change a flat tire
burn all of my books
and walt whitman in effigy
at a neighborhood weenie roast
but i say no
and go back to my flat beer
keeping my flat opinions to myself
as he squirts some oil on the grill
and sets our world ablaze
with a flame that reaches almost to the roof
red and yellow and orange
tickling our fancy
we ooh and awe like cavemen in discovery’s first light
catching broccoli in our mouths
from an expert flip
huffing and huffing
at its heat
filming it all on our cell phones
as dead meat fries and sizzles
as sexy lady number four is presented to the table
to claps and chants
and soft debauchery
as the blonde woman screams and screams and screams
her useless constitution
and hubby knows
that
wink
wink
will just be her passing out again
as he circle jerks the witching hour
toggling between espn and fox news and internet porn
while back here on hibachi mother earth
a mountain of crystal white onion on the grill
burns like a tire fire
from a fizzled-out riot
in an abandoned strip mall
parking lot
of the mind

and to be perfectly honest with you
…i didn’t eat my goddamned side salad either

Grampa Got Bit

There’s a board on the pole for his feet
but the damned things are never still;
always running mid-air marathons.
He lost a shoe in the corn stalks,
kicked it off one day, I reckon.
He keeps the birds away, though,
his gnashing teeth and flailing limbs
far more effective than any man
stuffed with straw

Hang In There, by John D Robinson
126 pages
Uncollected Press

Me and Sal Paradise, by Charles Rammelkamp
56 pages
FutureCycle Press

Ah, youth! Charles Rammelkamp’s ME AND SAL PARADISE is a poetic tale of the hitchhiking adventures of a young man in his early twenties. It’s the early 1970s, when Jack Kerouac’s influenced America’s youth with his romantic tales of cross-country adventures by car. One sequence of poems illuminates a 1971 hitchhiking adventure from the Midwest to Montreal and back, a pair of friends crossing Canada and New York state. Another sequence relates the solo adventures the following summer, also originating in the Midwest, of the author who this time heads to San Francisco, where his twin brother is living in the famed Haight-Asbury district. Through these journeys, we contemplate with the narrator the meanings of youth, friendship, and inevitably personal destiny.

PREVIEW/PURCHASE HERE

The Nature of Flings

As god is my witness
I’ve never been
with anyone
with a body
as hot as yours,
though several came close.
Too bad we will soon
hate each other.
That’s part of the equation,
the balance to all this
love we’re making.
Hate. It grows slow at first,
but grow it does
until it can walk across the room
and pour itself a drink.

And Dim the Lights

You’ll be a lot less disappointed
if you approach life
like an internet hookup:

Go.  Leave the house.
Drive to the motel.
Knock on the door.

Just don’t expect her
to look too much
like her photos.

Give her your best hump.
Don’t let her see
the disappointment
on your face.

Too Sexy For Instagram

I am very shy when it comes to giving women compliments
when i perceive them to be beautiful and intellectually fit and tolerant of my jokes
this one girl posed in fishnet stockings and I felt guilty for admiring her shapely figure
and the relentless buzz of sensuality I got imagining my hands as they caressed
her shapely pins while she crossed them to adjust one of her high heels
panties bright, lace, satin and she was generous enough to show them off
along with a wonder bra made by God himself during a horny episode of one stormy titan clash
of course i want her, but she’s taken so i shyly admit that I’m nervous when
I clumsily compliment her divine figure and just how sexy glasses are
when paired with the right lingerie, and girls like that are rare fish in a sea
that these days leaves little to the imagination, but her foxy thighs dream beauty for you
and you are respectful of her but WOW some lucky man out there gets to go to bed with her,
reading a cutting edge poetry zine and gently massaging her dangerous curves
until you are a dead man, a legend who died making love to a great and powerful muse
who gives me a tingle deep down at the center of it all by fogging up my glasses
in the heat of a computer screen surrounded by poetry, her mind an epic poem
that she teases me with just how much milk she drank to do that fine body good.