on my little & big screens I watch her
naked body
clapping with mine
at good angles I hit pause, and admire
her beautiful parts
and when her mouth opens wide and
eyebrows arch, I try to wrap my arms
around this memory on the screen as I say
I love you so much
I will continue to make one-sided love to
her in the screen
for many years to come yet, I expect
because
she trusted me
-Cleopatra, announcing my erection
You remember the coming of your love.
You didn’t demand anything from me to marry
Neither gold nor silver
Only my glorious penis
Hanging like a pole
Over your bleeding cunt.
Like a good Samaritan
You took me into your life
You saved me from putting my head
On the train tracks
At Atocha Station
That goes from Madrid to Paris
Because I was desperate
From not finding a job
And even less able to buy a house
Where to build our love nest.
Also, because of your unsettling question:
-Antonio, where is your manhood?
Like a ragged beggar
Who wore secondhand clothes
Bought at the flea market
You redeemed me forever
Because I sang to your pussy
I adored it and composed verses for it
In the Saint John of the Cross’ style.
Thanks to your money
We were able to rent an attic apartment
On Prado Street
Across from the Ateneo de Madrid
From where we could see its roof
Through a small window.
To the small attic
We had to enter on our knees
You first
Me saying to your ass:
-I adore you, I bless you.
Once inside
We could stand up
Going straight to the bedroom
Passing through the kitchen
With a bathroom included
Leaving our clothes there.
Our two sexes united
We sang glories and praises
To the cock.
-My love for you has no end, I would tell you
Trying to touch with my penis
The uvula of your throat.
-Give me seven orgasms
So I can father a child, you would tell me.
When we finished, we would do 69
And with our tongues we would clean
You my penis, me your cunt
Always together with you
As evening fell.
My father died of Cancer.
His mother, my grandmother,
died of Cancer.
I will die of Cancer.
They suffered horrible deaths.
I will suffer a horrible death.
I’ve come to terms with this.
I’ve contemplated suicide—
as I’m sure they must’ve as well.
Both had nothing to live for
except alcohol, cigarettes, family, friends—
life itself.
I live for these things too—
but also for my philosophy,
the written word—
the chance to exist unhindered—
an unborn audience—
to live dead forever
with Nietzsche, Plato,
Alexander the fucking great.
But that’s stupid.
Pointless.
The human animal
isn’t worth saving.
Yet,
still I go on.
What a headline to read
on page eleven
of the local newspaper.
The twenty-eight-year-old man
faces up to nine years in jail.
A woman who entered the Starbucks
for a cup of coffee observed the man
sitting at a table near the entrance,
his right hand moving “rapidly”
inside his sweatpants. She screamed.
The man fled next door
to a fast-food chicken restaurant
where he was arrested,
his trial, scheduled
six weeks from now,
in Annapolis District Court.
Birth dogs while death bitches.
You know: cunts, cocks, curfews abound.
¡Bark! ¡Bark! ¡Woof! ¡Bark! ¡GRNNGHLHRR!
Or: your eyes glistery as hectares of lit
rain-sprayed windows at Seattle’s dusk
on my eyes make my heart crawl with lice
and its mad thrompity thrompings don’t
curb one single lice-itch—thank god. Our
twosome smothers the smothering the angels
smother the smothered with. I.e.,
me. O, life’s shittings: all the shit that’s
fit to print weighs on me as much as
raindrops on Mount Rainer. When
I’m with you. Wherever upon the warp
of the world we are. I wish my cock
was twenty stories high, or thirty, or
vapor if that’s what you want. I don’t care.
Duh. So long as you like me liking you.
Let this be the most beautiful thing I’ve
ever–forever afterward included–ever said:
you are life yet you are fair. Or:
you are life yet you are fair. ¡Bark!
Backyard CIA stress positions have left me forgetting how to breath so would you place your hand on my chest, reach in, give it a squeeze?
Stepping on wasps
It’s like stepping on wasps
Those little sounds that they make
Bodies pop
And from the mouth of a licensed professional it came:
“Marry and reproduce
Do it again and agin”
But It’s another lecture
Come too fucking late
‘Cause I’ve pulled out again
Bore you a thousand sons
all left to die on your back
all to protect the women of the world from any future attack
Staked from throat to heart, cigarette in lips, I am the conquerer worm
Burrowed deep
And they say take as needed or just take it all
Fix your imperfections
Botched resurrection
Weak chin
Weak heart
a throwback with
blood in your cum
shades of Caligula on your gums
Half drunk to death
6 am
Porch lights still on
Yeah, you’ll like it right here
It’s home, comfort
fuck it, you’ll be dead in a year
and knowing
even then
at a micro age
something was completely off
and possibly not fixable
The fights
cops
the disappearance of my mother
the dad who was not
my biological dad
knowing every time
I went outside
everyone balked
stared
whispered
but no one ever tried
to salvage my wreckage
It’s always reassuring
when you’re on the outside
of the cage
pointing at the dilapidated
worn beast
Dark circles formed under my eyes
by age ten they were permanent
from those early years of
sleepless nights
where sounds began as whispers
grew savagely into screams
And nights when they were locked up
or drugged out
Grandma at any minute – and mostly
in the wee hours
would wail endlessly
so guttural and piercing
from the poison of thunderbird
or whatever she was able to swig down that remained……I remained
in that house
for years after
as if I could repair it
the caved in roof
the cracked windows
my irreparable parents
and full-crocked grandmother
I remained so long
rooted
like a desperate weed
roamed the streets
begging for comfort
as if the streets
were safer
than my scarcely furnished home
as if
God-awful people
are kinda cool
because they
dare to blatantly
be who they are—
annoying in the most
cloying sort of way
and everything
they say or should I say
verbally hurl
makes your toes curl
and their worst impulse
makes your blood curl
and raises your pulse
for they are the absolute worst
thing to happen to humanity
and they make you
get this close
to losing your sanity
but then out of the blue
they do something nice
like smile or act courteous
and you no longer feel
so very murderous
and realize they’re just
faulted and confused
and multifaceted
just like the rest of us
and they have their own worth
though you still secretly wish
they’d all go extinct
like the Tyrannosaurus Rex
that once roamed the earth
when us 80s and 90s kids
were comin up
it was all dare
don’t take candy from strangers
now it’s all rainbow fentanyl
a deliberate effort
by drug traffickers
to drive addiction
in kids
and young adults
dear dea, didn’t catch
american gangster
it’s been a while
for me personally
but it’s made that way
for the scene
the brand
at least
that was the way
with all our mdma
white dolphins
pink camels
purple doublestack shamrocks
not to specifically
target children
not that the sight
of such lively branded pills
doesn’t increase
their dreamy attraction
I mean
what american child
would not be intrigued
by the fun promise
of any pill
to make one happy?
our brain candy
is our disease
everyone else is selling it
so why not the ‘cartels’
as if every pill maker is mexican
but there’s no clowning about
110,000 ods on the wall
of mt. rushmore
one pill can kill
three grains of sand
in a tipped hourglass
and group texts
of friends relay
a tale of just one
touch killing a kid
or cop
a rumor ringling
bros barnum & bailey’s
into urban myth
like 90s hiv on needles
in change dispensers
or movie seats
our panic
the greatest show
on earth
from which we
can never od
but it all chutes
down to playgrounds
the thrill
of the ladder
and that
the saddest
souls
amongst us
won’t be cured
not even with hugs
it’s a street circus
milton bradleying
the neighborhood
just like heroin
in the sixities
on black blocks
so pull
your stool
up to the new
shooting gallery
and bet on the blue
bear hanging alone
from the heavens
shiny eyes lips
stilled
in a smile
odds are
better
than ever
Before, prostitutes roamed the streets
Looking for clients
Or they hung around industrial parks
Suspension bridges, crossroads
Or around churches or cathedrals
Where I had the experience of some
Who followed me, grabbed my jacket
And said demandingly:
-Don’t deny me, pal
I’ve got a hen for the chicken for cheap.
Today they advertise online
Or they write you emails begging for a good husband
With email addresses faker
Than counterfeit money
Or telling you they studied at Catholic schools
Or universities.
Circling the cathedral nine times
Or the church closest to my house
To some I replied:
-Stay put, whore.
Stay with God.
With Him you’ll be safe.
Some of them would reply:
-I don’t want any god
But a good man to get me pregnant
In this foreign land.
I want you to give me what’s mine
And not just any old pigeon.
This week I’ve received a ton of emails
With the sole intention of scamming me
Using the looking for a “fascinating boyfriend
Or husband” method
With deceptive reasons
Accompanied by photos of beautiful women
Top-notch, the best
Some showing their privates.
Since I still have the urge
To “let loose”
I’ve arranged to meet one of them by the statue
Of the Bear and the Strawberry Tree
In Puerta del Sol, Madrid
Which, judging by the photo, is gorgeous
Whose name is Julia, a Claudia’s friend
From a Friends of the University association.
We’ve arranged to recognize each other
By her exclaiming “Giddy-up”
And me saying “Donkey.”
When I got to the statue
Some woman said: “Giddy-up!”
I exclaimed: “Donkey!”
Seeing a worn-out, old lady
While gesturing with her hand
And who startled me.
“What a rip-off!” I thought,
Saying to myself:
-You deserve it for believing in scams again.
When she asked me:
-Who is this handsome donkey
That I see in my stable every day?
I turned to leave
But not before saying to her:
-Grandma, I’m sorry, you whore.
I don’t see you on my peg.
Horror Sleaze Trash 