Incomparable! Two lovers in one
Inseparable in his/her unity
Together we three become one
A blasphemous parody of love and desire
Yet more satisfying than the usual fare
Hermaphroditus, my only desire
Mythic master-mistress of passion
A conception rare and strange
We’ve ridden one tired mount through Kansas,
Miz Williams escaping the bullwhips
of that Arkansas plantation, to make her fortune
cooking for gold rats in the Colorado fields,
me hiding from the devilment I seem to raise
like Prospero conjuring spirits, to run trap lines
in the high, desolate mountains.
We stop at a town’s livery stable, the owner,
shotgun to hand, staring at my bear-slashed face,
knowing me for one of Quantrill’s men that massacred
Lawrence, before my conscience mauled me
like the bear that clawed me into a monster.
“I know who you are,” his voice shakes. “Keep riding.”
“First, this fine lady needs a mount.” I see him
weighing if he can refuse on account of her color,
or maybe put one over on us, when she points
to a strawberry roan mare.
“Ain’t for sale,” he spits tobacco. I let him take
a good long look at the scars that talon my face,
and for him to understand we ain’t moving
without that mare and her smooth stepping lines.
I toss a coin and demand a bill of sale.
Miz Williams sits her like a Comanche
born to ride without a saddle.
“I’ll call her Miz Shakespeare,” she laughs,
“for all the poems you been teaching me.”
For the first time in as long as I can recall,
a smile warms my face like daybreak,
like that summer day the Bard wrote about.
“Nothing you can do”
a friend told him
but that was never true
a large roadside sign
showed the finished product
as conceived
by brilliant architectural minds
five stories of earth toned
stucco abomination
blocking his mountain view
from the house he’d lived in for years
no
he wouldn’t have it
it began with small sabotage
slashing tires of trucks and loaders
filling pipes with rocks
setting fires
security increased
cameras and fences
nighttime guards
walking the beat
a new plan was devised
the fuel obtained
(don’t ask from where)
blueprints discovered online
and he was smart
he actually figured it out
but for a slight miscalculation
he’d intended to build
a small one
but when it went off
he had only a millisecond
to admire the glowing shaft
with its mushroom head
rising like a morning hard on
above the city
before he vaporized
into a dark shadow
on the rocks behind
as the city burned
leaving a pristine black crater
and a fabulous mountain view
STOP
in the name of love
or
in the name of straightjackets
His anti-love almost killed me,
well, it did kill me
He just wasn’t smart enough to hide my body
somewhere, besides the Dark
DARKNESS IS MY ADOPTIVE MOTHER
DARKNESS IS MY FATHER
for every Sundae, I confess with cherries and sprinkles
I make it all pretty (ugly)
He licked around it and just fucking let it melt
Mistook my wild-eyed observing for Fear
Mistook my sprinkles for a shattered soul
‘Now she knows better’, he writes
Well, at least he can speak truth
ONCE IN A WHILE in a poem
WHERE WOULD WE BE WITHOUT POETRY?
Will it be enough to save him from himself?
That demon sure is persistent
They wanna know why I done it.
You wanna know why I done it.
Ever since I been in here
they been pesterin’ me ’bout
Why, Why, Why
Well hell.
If I knowed why’d I done it,
then I wouldn’t be sittin’ right here
in this damn cell.
Look.
All I know is:
when I saw that man,
an’ that woman,
an’ them six childjurn of theirs,
all dressed up in they’s Sunday best,
ever one of em looking fed an’
happy as a pig in shit…
It just set somethin’ off in me.
An’ that little bitty ol’ house,
that wasn’t fit for even
a damn ol’ chicken pen,
sittin’ out there all alone,
‘mongst all them damned fields.
I swear.
It’s as if that house was built
just so this’d happen:
So their God,
in his infinite fucking wisdom,
could set that family on the
path to Heaven,
“in his kindness”.
You know,
I set up in that attic an’
it was like I had all
the time in the world,
just me an’ my ax,
not thinkin’ a damn thang…
Just knowin’.
I wonder you reckon?
if they is up there?
being tended to by them angels?
That’s what daddy’d say:
“The Lord works in mysterious ways”.
A damned fools answer
if they ever was one.
Sharpen your tomahawks;
lace up your boots and
crank up your war machines.
A hurricane of spleen and bone
is coming,
with the tortured souls of fury
at the head.
You’ve built faulty systems
to repair your faulty systems;
nothing you’ve conceived
ever manifested into anything
before it turned to dust and blood.
Your numbers are wrong,
the calculations have handicapped
other systems and they’re really
quite fucking angry about it.
Haven’t you ever wondered why
in all the prayers in all the world
there aren’t any that don’t
ask for something?
see the hunger in his eyes
see the emptiness in his soul
the slow junk crawl of need
that will never be filled,
it all comes down to this
the hot pulse in the back of the throat
the rectal throb deep inside,
then the withdrawal
that leaves the trembling chill
and the devouring emptiness
that closes in again,
look inside your mirror
see the hunger in your eyes
see the emptiness in your soul
I can hear breathing like calm ocean waves
Claws and teeth in atrophy somewhere close
One day I’ll build that treehouse
A place where our thoughts won’t betray us
My enemy is waking
I hear labored breathing and claws
digging through dirt and stone
You died before you became famous
Your absence born a silent revolution
like those that they make documentaries about
I’ll have to start moving now
I am the hunted and my history will be painted
black like coal
My enemy is here
What I don’t understand about
literature is when a writer uses
the expression ‘We made love
all night long’ what do they
mean by love? Were his/her
imagined representations
banging away hammer
& tongs for eight/ten hours
or were there interludes-
quietly kissing,
cuddling & administering
the occasional hand job?
This is a legitimate question
especially for those seeking to establish a more credible
& profound understanding
of fucking in literature-
the squeaky bed
the bent fuck
the spent gold on the ground.
This takes us forward to Marquis
de Sade. While in prison in
1785 he created the character
of Duc de Blangis. In his youth
the Duc had been known to
ejaculate as often as 18 times a
day and once successfully
wagered that he could take it
up the ass by 55 different men
in succession.
Was this magnificent novel the direct result of penile servitude or
the sado-masochistic by-product of Sade’s obscene imagination?
*
The editor of Quagmire is dumbfounded, ‘I can’t publish this shit-
you don’t seem to instruct, delight or moralise- you merely
write profanities- what is your point anyway?’
I pitch him the old arguments:
A work of Art is autonomous, a self-contained entity.
The artist needs to create freely and not be a slave to subject matter.
Art’s function is to challenge the hypocrisy & lies of conventional ways of thinking.
Art needs only to be judged in terms of its aesthetic value… & so on.
He asks cynically, critically, ‘Now what might some of this criteria be based on-
the number of bonks you describe & the length & circumference of private parts?’
‘I think you’re starting to get up my fucking ass now’, I phallocentrically add.
in the park bathroom
on the toilet
took some laxatives earlier
haven’t shat in svn days
tried hella times
but it’s just not coming out
it’s 9:40
park closes in 20 minutes
push push puush
just a couple small turds come out
push push ahh
i debate goin to the ER
my stomach is in so much pain
then i hear someone enter the bathroom
i hear them walk up to my stall
…
a head appears (!?)
a hand
an arm
reaching under the stall
grabbing my leg
pulling me out
what the hell! i scream and kick
he screams “give me your fucking wallet!”
no way, alls i got is 10 dollars
“hell no bitch”
i get to my feet and try to fight him
but it’s kinda hard when your pants are around your ankles
this is bad
“i’m going to beat the shit out of you!” he yells
he punches me in the face
i fall on my ass
he kicks me in the stomach
he bends over reaching for my wallet
i’m holding him off for now but not for long he’s too strong…
then i feel it
ooo shit, it’s coming
ooOO
then i get an idea
(shout outs to tub girl)
“you fucked with the wrong guy!” i yell,
rolling my legs behind my head
i aim
then pushpushPUUUSH
and a fountain of shit shoots into his face
bulls eye
he runs for the exit, projectile vomiting
he slips on puke n shit and falls
i pull up my pants, get to my feet
he gets up and tries to run out again but slips and falls again
he’s completely covered in shit n vomit
miraculously none got on me
i rip the paper towel dispenser off the wall and bash him over the head unconscious
“BITCH!”
then i steal his backpack, cigs, flask, cell phone, car keys, wallet with 60 bucks in it, squirt on him some more, wipe my butt, wash my hands, and get the hell out of there in his 2005 ford escape. beep beep!
i take a few more shits inside it, smear it all over, then leave it on the side of the highway out of gas, bash out a window, slash one tire. i think that’s enough. we’re even now.
feeling good. feeling light as a feather. 200 miles closer to my destination and enough to buy a train ticket the rest of the way.
YEEEHAW
