Blonde Pussy of Nashville

Raised my head
Tried to get out of bed
You nudged my hide
You want another ride?
You turned onto your back
I spread your cheeks
I looked deep inside
I made my dive

Chorus: 

I’m eatin’ the blonde pussy of Nashville
Much tastier than road kill
Your pussy’s so clean, it shines
Amen, it’s dinnertime
Hmm, you’re a young pussy
You sure are juicy
Your pussy is so sweet
it could feed all of Tennessee

I put on a glove and inserted my pinky
You are my Twinkie
Your chocolate’s on my tongue
Hmm, much richer than dung
Your hairs are stuck in my teeth
I’ll never floss, I won’t cheat
Next time, do an enema first
Black tongue, what is worst?

(Chorus) 

Bridge: 

One day your pussy will turn gray
Don’t worry, that’s O.K. 
One day your pussy will turn white
I’ll still eat you every night
One day, if you shave,
I’ll leave you, that’s all I have to say. 
I want your pussy throughout the years.
Say yes, or it’s tears.

(Chorus)

The Clothed Truth

Something bad just happened to me
and I really threw myself into it

It was the day before yesterday
probably a Sunday
the sky remembered to write to the moon
in fairy floss across the sky
like crimson ribbons floating away
wondering why

The moon seemed happy
whistling a tuneless lullaby
to the remembered future
the forgotten past

To me, it all looked rather joyful, hopeful
The sky doing its thing,
hanging out with the contented moon
I walked home, found you there

UNINVITED

I can still hear your pleading prophecy whispering with your déjà vu 
come write with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove
try the elixir
suck my blood
I’ll devour your
DISSONANCE

Music will paint our murals
writing will feed our sacraments
fucking will excite the loving hurting healing
PROWLING

Fly your kite into the abyss
WRITE YOUR NAME IN THE MUD

Choose Venus

Pink swirl tattoo
the skin of Venus.
Her arms and heart and legs
open wider
than Nefertiti, Aphrodite and Hera,
those mean girls.  

When my conjured flowers 
need to feed
I boast they are damned 
strong
and impervious to absorb ammonia.
Don’t be afraid. 

My pipe smoke rises
from phoenix fires.
Rain is not made of foolish tears,
desire 
and disaster season this water –
no salt here.  

I churn and flare mighty
like a constant glowing liar,
a hot green house fire.
Venus shows herself
to be the truthful 
God of Love. 

The Saw

Its most common use
is pruning those pesky branches
that encroach upon the house.
Or chopping down the whole tree
if required.

But a saw can also be a musical instrument
Bending and unbending,
an onrush of glissando,
replicates a theremin. 

Another common practice 
with such an implement 
is removing the head of an enemy
whom you’ve drugged 
and bound to a parlor chair.

The instructions saws come with
only mention the first of these applications. 

But there’s no reason that
you shouldn’t wield a saw
to decapitate some guy.
You can even play a tune or two
while you’re doing it.

By the altar

I flung my jacket by the altar
undid my tie my squeezed
arteries freed at last
beneath the cross
and the priest
undid my shoes my swollen feet
gasping and smelling
of sweat and progress
hung over an open shirt
I lift up your skirt
and listen to you shriek
I lift you from the earth
and listen to you squeak
like a small dog in the echo
of the church your mother’s
gaping mouth and that big old hat
she’s had since the seventies
at a horse show looking gawky
looking sly in a moment she’ll prepare
her speech she’ll prepare to
reduce you to ashes!
her index finger jittering mid-air
her wobbly skin in a convulsive tremor

hey baby
what do you say we place our cards
on the table and say
I do.

Deb

I keep thinking of her,
just one of many who ghosted me,
to use the 21^st century parlance.

I keep thinking of her,
so-so looking,
incredibly stupid,
nice thighs in the pictures,
sturdy fleshy body.
That’s the way I thought about her –
like chicken parts,
something I wanted to tear into
just because I was famished.
I imagine the things I would do to her
if I was confident and there were no consequences:
things I would do with my hands
and with not-my-hands.
Rude things I would do
while she told me she didn’t like it
but secretly did like it.

I keep thinking of her.
Among all the ghost-wreckage,
much of it unremembered,
for some reason it’s Deb
that keeps crossing into my mind
while I’m lying here.
It’s bestial. 
I’m a real animal
and she’s still pretty stupid
but she wants me now
because she knows what I’m for
and I know what she’s for,
so it doesn’t matter how dumb
or otherwise useless she is
and I get to getting to it;
putting her to use.
Really getting it done.

littlest

littlest hearts live in littlest towns 
lopsided labia in leftover 
liminal playgrounds lunatics loll around 
in lieu of a libertine’s life, laid over 
in the land of nod without lunesta 
or knife but rife with a violence 
towards anything small. fashion a 
weapon from a corroded see-saw, glints 
in the sunlight, similar steel he once rode 
in his own lackluster park when he was
less, long ago, dark, looking to implode
in a stark public treehouse, midnight— does 
not believe anyone innocent climbs
at this time.  littlest parts are all they find. 

Jubilant Jubilee

Johnny Rotten’s putting up bunting
For the cunting queen’s jubilee.
Don’t get me started on the street parties 
And all the bonkers bank holiday glee.

Troops are colouring in your minds
With lies to feed your loyalty.
Andrew’s sweating like a ham.
Fuck all the fucking royalty.

Queen and country’s a fan club
And a symbol of all that’s wrong
With this land of hope and glory
And the buying-it throbbing throng.

Celebrate with burgers and beer, 
And a sunny day off work.
Me? I played God Save the Queen
LOUDLY, with a smirk.

Too Much Monkey Business

“Monkeypox likely spread by sex
at raves in Europe, experts say.”
The headline in the local paper 
read like a grocery store checkout line tabloid.

Weary from all the Covid drama –
a million dead in the United States alone! –
we now had another 
disaster movie scenario to contend with.

A WHO scientist cited raves in Belgium and Spain.
“We know Monkeypox can spread
when there’s close contact with lesions 
of someone who’s infected,” he told the reporter.
“Now it appears 
sexual contact has amplified the transmission.”

Seeking to tamp down the hysteria, 
the “expert” went on:
“There haven’t been any deaths.
Typically, the virus causes fever, chills, rash,
and lesions on the face and genitals.
Most people recover within weeks,
without having to go to a hospital.
Also, it’s not spread through the air,
and we do have vaccines.”

Whew.

Forty-six and divorced

So I’m divorced.
I’m two decades older
than I was the last time
I was single
and I’m two inches further
from being happy.
But
Forty is the new sixty.
Wait.
Sixty is the new forty.
So.
Forty is like being thirty which
means yes. I’m really horny.
I am.
I think dick 99% of the time.
At my desk, I’m working and
also being fucked by two guys
with thick penises.
Oh yeah.
My imagination’s just strong enough
to get me a few feet from the edge.
So I’m forty-six.
I look good.
I don’t have kids.
So no shame there or errands there
or apple juice on my sweater.
I’m ready.
I put on some nice clothes,
my girlfriend meets me at the bar
and we drink an expensive cocktail
and nothing happens. Not a thing.
So I go home thinking, “This just isn’t
my night”, and imagine being fucked
by just one big dick this time
and fall asleep. I masturbate maybe
three times the next morning and scrub
my vibrator to death before putting it back
in the box (some good things happen
when you get older). I go to work and
there’s my co-worker. Well he’s lovely
and he bends over my desk with those
hard shoulders and that brown hair
and we talk (work stuff) and I say:
“D’you like Westlife?” “Haven’t heard of them”
“They’re playing a show tonight, wanna come?”
“Sure”, and we meet that evening and he’s only
just joined so I have no clue who he really is
and we dance and he’s laughing which gets
me laughing and I’m thinking, “This is it. This is
the night. You rock! Sixty is the new forty!”
Then after the show we walk towards the station
and he says: “You know I think I’ve heard of them”
“Oh yeah?” “Yeah my mum is a massive fan” “Your mum, huh?”
“Yeah” “Would kissing me feel like kissing your mum?”
“Dancing with you felt like dancing with my mum” and
he broke into some weird dad dance and said “This
is how you guys used to dance, right? In the eighties?”
“Nineties”, I said. “Right, this is me”, he points to the station
across the road and says “Thanks” and walks off.

Nineties, Hugo. It was the nineties.
When twenty was just twenty.