She came with a gut-
wrenching scream.
Goddamn, I could feel
her cunt pulsing and
throbbing. Head bowed
for a minute, slicked
breasts heaving, she
then climbed off and
laid on the bed beside
me. I could hear her
staggered breathing,
really more like
panting actually.
My crotch was soaked
with her pussy juices.
I thought about the
evening and knew
it’d start up again.
A third time.
“So what’s your
name anyway?”
After the coup, in the year of half-returns
you talk about the city of pirates
or is it pussy, king of the pirates —I don’t know, Lulu
you’re always playing games
and I’m smart-alecky in my brown blazer
entertaining hangovers, and yet, and why
who can say. The weather clusters without cohesion
and we go to the MFA for a single painting
of rosy rusty tones and street lamps
like flayed angels
then off to a party
half-remembered, on Linden
where I watch you
walk through walls, dividing sense
like a double-agent, lo—
the boatswain is there
and the army of the queen,
we are flying down to Rio, someone says
and Rachael’s risotto has me shedding marvelous tears
again.
The carrion blossom
of her flower-stained body
awash with the heady scent
of venom & ambergris
in lewd open bloom
like a pall
laid thick & heavy
before blear & leering eyes
Abnormal petting
vivarium seduction
scorpions, leeches,
jumping spiders
& bearded dragons
a little death & taxidermy
fringe-dwelling chaos
a place of domestic
serenity amidst
lascivious destitution
Unlikely as it seems
I envy perhaps
the funhouse
of fractured mirrors
erected to her afterlife
Perhaps it’s simply
the call of the void
I could see the poem wriggling its wrists,
tied behind it on the chair it was sitting in,
not yet panicking but clearly uncomfortable,
the rope burning its flesh.
“God damn it,” I shouted at the poem,
swinging the rubber hose at my side.
“You’re going to be lyrical and profound,
or I’m going to make you suffer!”
The poem whimpered.
my fate’s in God’s hands, now,
says the woman arrested
for stealing a million and a half
dollars’ worth of chicken wings
meant for the school district’s
free lunch program for
underprivileged children during
the CoVid crisis.
apparently, there’s a black
market for back-alley wings.
during those two years she sold
eleven thousand cases of wings
to fund her gambling addiction.
now, I’m not certain the god
of chicken wing thieves is open
to the prayerful petitions
of someone who would deny
the chicken appetites
of poor school children but
a person well-versed in the
vagaries of karma might opine
a woman who has gambled away
that much money with nothing
to show for it has already
had her fate decided for her.
I paid 79 bucks to check my suitcase,
and Frontier Airlines
broke one of the wheels, claiming
my damage was due to extreme turbulence,
but I slept through most of that flight
and made it through intact.
I was returning from
the AWP writer’s conference–
a thinly veiled, non-stop commercial
for various MFA programs.
Would I have a hoity-toity writing style
if I paid thousands for an advanced degree,
and would the turnstiles of literature
swing open for me at last?
Would I be ushered into panels,
while enraptured would-be novelists
sat in uncomfortable folding chairs,
awaiting my well-rehearsed opinions?
Ah, to be put up in the finest Doubletree Inn,
with free Uber rides throughout the city.
Instead, I must worry about a
fucking $79 charge
and my broken suitcase from Marshall’s.
I guess it beats a lot of
other things I could be doing,
but not by much.
The heads of Easter Island nod their way down Main Street. Frothing cream pie
Add to Cart girls hooked up to Hismith Premium fuck machines like charging stations
for the woman on the go. And I am up on the third floor, jacking off to a picture
of Hedy Lamarr in a space suit. She was friends with Howard Hughes long before
the Mormons filled his arms with broken needles. Why does everything sound
like an unlevel washing machine when I’m trying to get to El Dorado?
Long, frenzied strokes like the dirty talk space program trying to get off right there
on the launch pad. A grandstand full of binoculars to cheer me on.
I feel at home in the great patriotic womb, let out a succession of tiny farts
like escaped prisoners fanning out across the county. Snow squalls from
Radio Canada, Farley Mowat and the tragic wheat kings. Now, that is a band
I would go see, if I were not chafing the carrot with these stainless-steel veggie
peelers for hands. One hand really, like someone who refuses to clap.
What a royal asshole he is! Probably skins cats with an engraved butterknife!
Who doesn’t enjoy the show? I know I can’t enough. Dwarves humping midgets
pumping little green men in some sort of evolutionary fuck buddy bouncy castle
to bring the bucking big bang cosmos home.
there you were: star-crossed
& stark, nipping the neck
of Calvinus, flicking Winstons from windowsill,
scribbled MA sonnets
& scrunched love letters smothered
under feet & frown,
Twelve Carat Toothache
cutting the silence,
your rib cage crushing, lungs
heaving in the June heatwave
with undiagnosed pneumonia
& pleural effusion,
coughing blood
& wheezing cheater
Piss splatters my breasts
The dry earth drinks the soft rain
You drench me in gold
On my hands and knees
thunder rolls over the hills
Your cock in my ass
You sit on my face
Roosters crow in the hen house
Your balls fill my mouth
Bit gagged and bridled
I wait in a clover field
Horse and cock rear high
Helpless in shackles
Sacrificed under the moon
Impaled on your cock
My nipples are hard
The beach is stony and hot
You collar my neck
You shoot so much cum
The stream is fast and frothy
My mouth overflows
A tale as old as time. You’re one of three dirty cops representing the different archetypes of masculinity all falling for the same dame. She’s pure and unattainable and touching her is the same as signing your own death warrant. She is also a prostitute. She is also an heiress. She is also cunning. She is also elegant. She is also able to hold her liquor. There’s just one problem. Her sister is missing, her father is missing, her husband is missing, her lover is missing, her mother’s will is missing. The case is hot. The leads are cold. People all over town are getting iced. Someone’s buying up all the water rights because this is the desert and because it’s the very essence of life. All of this while others chase down stone birds. Still others pull insurance scams. Tough guys whose appearance is their whole identity wave heaters and swing blackjacks. A kid in a newsboy cap will give you hope and praise and grief. The kid is your lookout. The kid is your go-for. He saved your life once. You saved him. Either way you’re responsible so when you see him on the street you toss him a grin and a nickel. Everyday you keep looking for justice but a closed case file hits just as good.
Horror Sleaze Trash 