Flat Sausage

We were over at her place 
watching Braveheart 
when the idea came to me.

I’d always had a problem 
with impulse control.

Walking into her kitchen
to grab the Panini Press from the pantry
and dropping my pants.

Sticking my cock into the middle of the press
and pulling the top down.

Trying to create some flat sausage,
a Scottish favourite, I’d been told.

When I pulled away,
the shaft was steaming.

A wonderful waffling pattern burned 
into my squished dick.

She screamed like travelling banshees.
A single uninterrupted wail.

I figured the English must be coming.

Quick, grab your makeup bag,
I need my war paint!

She kept looking down 
at the flat sausage between 
my legs.

Now was not the time 
to be hungry.

Marriage Or Booze

as everyone I know is
getting married or settling down with
kids and whatnot, of course I
get asked why I don’t do
the same.

I usually just shrug, smile, and ignore the question.

no one wants to hear the truth; they think
they do, until it’s too late.

they think they want to hear my reasons for
not getting married, for not wanting a serious
relationship. until they hear my wherefores.

met the love of my life when
I was twenty. we drank bars
dry, we drained bottles of gin and bourbon
every night.

we smoked crack cocaine. we snorted blow, too.
we dropped acid. smoked pot.
we also smoked, inhaled, and eventually shot heroin.
it’s what killed her; the best and worst
fucking thing I’ve ever encountered: junk. it took her
away after she had an abortion, because we both knew we
were unfit to become parents.

she OD’ed. I survived. went cold turkey.
relapsed. cold turkey again.
continued drinking. and smoking ice. and rock.
and anything else I could find.

anything and everything that fed the insanity
residing in my soul.
until I quit everything but booze.
now that I’ve reached the age I’m supposed to
be settling down, and people ask me why I
don’t, I wonder if I should tell them the
truth or if I should just go back to
chasing dragons until the moronic
questions dissipate.

Maenad Chorus 1 from Dionysus in Digital

He has the code of pleasure in his cock.
Follow the cock. Follow the cock. Follow. 
Rave demons into the hot meaty soup. 
Tripping meaty ecstasy in the woods. 
Golden skin and songbirds everywhere. 
Sunburn your genitals in the throbbing
Zeitgeist. Zeitgeist. Zeitgeist. Zeitgeist. Perform.
The soft aesthetic mindless trancey porn.
Mad cocks. Mad loveliness. Cunt loveliness.
The dilating dirt with all its secrets. 
The warm dirt circling hoofed and screaming. 
Scrotal dirt. Cock dirt. Womb dirt. Cunt dirt. Dirt. 
Dirt is the currency. Tweet. Tweet. Tweet. Tweet. 
The mangled dirt beat. The Temple of Meat.

Scumbag Jesus

What a lovely place for thugs 
and Jesus we have become,
especially since Jesus is now 
a killer and a rapist, 
a scumbag of avarice. 
The Lord knows we are very special, 
since nobody knows more 
about God and guns 
than we do 
and we alone can tell the world 
to bow down before us. 
Well, the world minus Russia, 
since they own us now, 
and maybe minus China, 
since they also have a claim, 
or the various Middle Eastern states
since they give so much cash 
to our Dear Leader. 
What a lovely stink we have
from our festering rot,
or maybe let’s say 
it’s from the dirty poor. 
Scumbag Jesus knows 
the impoverished and their needs 
are disgusting. 
Their bodies are only good 
for the pleasure of their betters, 
and only if they have strong backs 
or nice tits. Very young nice tits, 
especially so. 
Everyone dies at the end, 
so why be concerned? 
Scumbag Jesus sure isn’t. 
All the health care in the world 
won’t change that, 
so let’s just stop coddling the poor. 
The very, very rich have to eat, too, 
so we must be humane 
and cut their taxes to nothing.
Scumbag Jesus knows a thing or two 
about the burdens of wealth, 
since he and his dad 
have many mansions, 
and the upkeep is a bitch. 
So, he approves, just as he approves 
of the president’s secret police 
snatching people off the streets 
for torture and prison. 
Scumbag Jesus loves that most of all. 
Scumbag Jesus hates the libs, though,
as he hates the poor, 
and he hates everyone 
not born in America, 
also most people born here, 
since we are getting poorer by the day. 
One more thing:
Scumbag Jesus told me,
when we were drinking a beer 
the other night, 
that he made dicks for stabbing pussies 
and pussies for making babies 
and getting grabbed by celebrities, 
so the trans abominations
best stop their sinful ways. 
Scumbag Jesus won’t be taking your shit. 
He has no fucks to give. 
He’ll see you in Hell, 
waving the Stars and Stripes, 
and swinging his holy dick 
like a motherfucker.
Scumbag Jesus is proud to be an American, 
where at least he knows he’s free.

Philip II’s Chair

Now I find myself alone with my erect penis.
I don’t know what to do
Whether to jump out the window of the inn where I’m staying
Show it to the women passing by on the street
In front of my window
Or stick it in my own arsehole
As Ovid taught us his Donkey did
With the dancing cock.
The art of shaking our clappers
It’s something we learn very well and without teachers.
But I don’t want to cum
Before showing it to the girls
And seeing them laugh like donkey
Making me cum inside
Closing the window, closing the blinds.
In this erect trance, I remembered
The charitable good advice
My spiritual father gave me at the Monastery of El Escorial
Where I went to confession one day 
During spiritual exercises:
-You idiot, I know a lot about masturbation.
If your penis is seriously erect
And can’t grasp the girls’ cunts
Go, grab a hammer and smash it.
He gave me a fake Bible
With a hammer inside.
I went to the Herrería forest
Placing my very erect and affectionate penis
On an enormous granite rock
That they say is the Philip II’s Chair
At the foot of Mount Abantos
And the impressive Machotas.
Unexpectedly with the light of this day
The hammer fell from the fake Bible
Grabbing it and hammering my erect penis
With a shower of blows to the glans.
I screamed so horribly
That stormy clouds suddenly
Began to throw down lightning and thunder
Seeming happy and, at the same time, tearful.
The fresh rain of the moment ended the erection.
Seeing my penis defeated and fallen
With its great beauty and significance still there
I dreamed that one day it would be declared
UNESCO’s World Heritage 
Like Philip II’s Chair.

He’ll Do It for Me

Im looking for a bridge to you, Daddy
With each man I live and die for
I get one step closer to understanding you
And why you left
And why you avoided
And why you cheated 
And why you drank 
And why you hurt
And why you thank
And why you loved me
So completely 
So obsessively 
But could not gift me your presence 
And why you thought the gift was your absence 
And why you needed so much time alone 
And why you could never stay too long
And why you and I are kin
And why I must find you through men
Im looking for a bridge to you, Daddy 
I think I finally found the one
The one who will rise to meet me
Despite every way he is just like you
He’ll do it, for me, Daddy?

Trophy Widow, 1963

Perfectly preserved in the dark,
still, she wears his favorite dress,
his favorite heels, the spikes 
that catch on the shag
nearly rolls an ankle
mixes him a highball,
drinks it herself 
has another and waits
it is like it was
has another and waits
the longer she waits
the more she will need
has another and waits 
for the archeologists
to find her there in his vault
with the rest of his possessions

This One Time We Held Hands and Watched the Dawn Rise Over a Strip Club

A dancer leaned from a window and let her hair fall. 
Southern Ontario never felt more like a fairytale. 

Years later you sent me a text out of the blue.
“If you fuck someone tonight 
try to love them less than me.” 

I didn’t respond but maybe I should have.

If you’re reading this, I still hope 
for the future we talked about

having sex while Bernie Sanders is giving 
a victory speech, to really roll around naked 
in grassroots where the beautiful voices are

where none of them feel trapped. 

Submarine

I trace the influence
of the Renaissance 
in your face
which is not 
so much a style 
as a way of living. 
The dawn of perspective 
in doom town. How sad, how 
lovely, like death 
laying an egg 
in a trashy movie.  
I’m deep red. 
You’re sprawled on the couch 
with your clit out.  
I mistake it for a bird 
at first, and then a pink sweater 
and then a monastery 
on a hill overlooking the sea 
where a submarine blips 
like a latticed halo. 

the harrows of toil

now that the gnashings
of locomotion 
come to the terminus
of the continent—
now that the pacific’s
cold waves douse the
fires of the republic—
now that destiny is fully manifest,
and all the ruckus of
infinite growth comes
thrashing against a finite world,
there we find a fella
with his palm out,
asking for a dime. he,
like everyone else, is
selling something to 
survive. he’s selling
alleviation of guilt,
as the holy man does. 
a holy man
is a beggar with a 
compelling story:
promising eternal reward
for 10% of your earnings—
promising that you 
are a good person despite
what you do—
a holy guarantee that you 
are justified. 
a beggar has his bag of 
tricks too:
he has stories he can tell
and myths he can propagate
about the great western man
and his lurch into the american
century. he can say that there’s
a woman back in his hometown
that’s waiting on him to make good
on the promise of the century,
even though he knows that she’s
probably long ago moved onto
greener wallets. a girl’s gotta eat.
and yes the world wants him gone
but have you considered that he’s
bigger in heart than all the goons
on wall street combined and simply wasn’t
built for this economy? an economy
that requires lumpen destitution to function.
if it wasn’t him, it would be somebody
else, here with hand outstretched,
waiting for a dime.