Saint Danielon

Saint Danielon was on his way to sainthood
In the Seminaries of Madrid and Segovia
Where the struggle against the flesh and its lust
Was the most longed-for victory.
He prayed and made sacrifices
In the mysticism of his soul and his ass.
Among his sacrifices were:
“When I go to bed
I sleep on the mattress
To drive in the irons and rings.
At midnight
I masturbate like a donkey
Even with my hands tied.
In the morning, when it is midday
Praying on my knees
On very hard chickpeas
I levitate better than any saint
Raising it to the Lord
To fall after the seventh mansion
With my pants wet and ejaculated.
My fellow seminarians
Are very envious of me
Seeing that my imminent ascent to the altars
Is closer every day in this life
Envious of seeing
How my penis grows more each day.”
Senior seminarians
Went to their spiritual director to tell him:
-Look, Father Liborio
Danielón isn’t fulfilling his duty
To curb and subdue his lust.
-If our beloved Danielón
Can’t overcome temptation
He doesn’t ask anything of you
Not even your arsehole.
Let him be
But let him go to confession.
Danielón has two great books with him
From which you should learn:
The Bible, full of love affairs
Obscenities, lies, plunder
Incest, and whoring
And Voltaire’s Philosophical Dictionary
Where he attacks superstition, metaphysics
Religious dogmas
And the dangers of authoritarian governments.
Make your own as Danielón does
Voltaire’s famous phrase:
“Think for yourself and let
Others enjoy the privilege of doing so as well.”
One day Danielón left the Seminary
Without even saying goodbye
To the superior and confessor
Encouraged by his brothers-in-law
Who were a pair of lecherous womanizers
Who gave him a sketch of Madrid
With the places marked in color where he could find
The best and worst prostitutes.
He, not being stupid
Wanted to find out about the places by experimenting.
Near the Seminary
They pointed out the back
Of the Royal Basilica of San Francisco el Grande
Which stands out for its majestic dome
And its art collection
With Goya and Zurbarán’s works
With an observation in black pen:
“It’s not worth it.
The prostitutes fuck with their legs spread wide
On a rock, and for a peseta (a penny).
There’s a long line, and you have to take your dick out.”
They also pointed out the Plaza Mayor
And the Habsburg Quarter
Between the Sol and Opera metro stations
With this observation:
“The women aren’t bad
But they cost an arm and a leg.”
They also pointed out
Tirso de Molina Square, the Rastro flea market
And Ballesta Street
Located between Malasaña, Gran Vía, and Chueca
With this observation:
“Areas of divine, eternal prostitution
Where prostitutes advertise themselves
As sellers of sweets and contraband tobacco:
“Sunflower seeds, chewing gum, candy, tobacco
There’s a plan”
At the price of two or three pesetas.”
They also highlighted Paseo de la Habana
And Orense Street
With this observation:
“High-class whores
But with vaginas as ugly as those of the monkeys
At the Zoo in Casa de Campo
At a price of five to ten pesetas.”
Danielón decided to find one
In Tirso de Molina Square
Or the Rastro flea market.
Passing in front of 
The Royal Collegiate Church of Saint Isidro
And Our Lady of Good Counsel
He saw a very attractive woman coming out
And, standing next to her
He said her:
-I’ll lick your cunt and fuck it so.
She looked at him and smiled, replying:
-Come and follow me.
We went to Tirso de Molina Square.
There, in the doorway, were three hunks waiting.
The whore told them:
-I’ll finish with this one right away.
He just got out of the seminary.
Danielón acted like a real macho man.
He rode her like a donkey
Leaving her cunt a beautiful mess
With the meringue of his ejaculation all over her.
She left her legs spread wide
With all the meringue still there.
The three hunks from the doorway appeared
With their hard pricks
Together and inside her cunt
Continuing fucking and enjoying her.

Dead Dawn Dependency 

The urge to step out rises like a fever dream 
An infective sense of what a person does
The night there to be inhabited 
For the expenditure of youth
             And you alone
             With the ghost light of your cigarette
             Burning away from a balcony platform
             Straining against the imprisonment of self
Heed this call to discovery 
Though it comes without causation 
Where getting ready is a form of foreplay 
Leading to uncertainty 

          Outside 
                     Before it’s too late

The vastness of the night 
Restrained by the city-glow 
The non-dimensional Mundane Egg shell
Beneath which tower blocks fizz with energy 
Unpeopled booths of uncurtained office space
Making voyeurs of emptiness of us all
Those strip-neons flicker
Cinematic remembrances 
Of the stars whose light they’ve leached 
Burn the old constellations
Into your crumbling memory
           They’re taking that as well
           Eroding it away
           Through the developing muscle-memory
           Of micro-transactions 
Those stellar bodies
Cold astral corpses
Once guides for the weary
Are the only magic left to us
            ‘Here be monsters’
At the black edge of the street-lights 
The mysteries beyond the urban forest fire
Where Pseudo-Leviathan consumes Leviathan 

This atheism of the city 
First-and-only possible child 
Of the steel dome sky-mask
A dull reflection in pewter
Nothing more than a pareidolic face
The age-faded identikit
Piecing together of memory 
Which night’s awareness brings
In the palimpsest of history 
It’s corpses all the way down 
Transience the only certainty
            And health, a respite from the living sickness
Manifesting in the 
            Dead dawn dependency
The conviction that the sun will rise
            And imbue it all with meaning
A totemic rebuttal to the singularity 
            Of the ghost-lit monument of the midnight hour 
The hiding place beneath the city-glow
            Obscuring the true face of existence

Take Care of Yourself

A mangled stomach of the ocean?
No, your chest split open on a stainless steel table
between two wounds of darkness 
in my house.
I swallow your mucus, the clots of salty blood,
and think about a tempestuous sky 
above the ocean you dreamt about last night.
Tonight I’m dreaming about it, too,
with my hands deep in your open chest.

Love Tentacle

Verge of a foam-white ocean
eating out insides like tidal
waves, tidal pools, muscle stuck
suction cups curved around nipples
near the jetty water pulling out
hot macaroni drip from hot lips
sea stars drop, gnawing out stubborn
flesh on a beach fogged in limbo
dimmer now the sun setting
a curve of a banshee beacons
some incomplete burning ritual
submitting Lovecraft to turn pale
blush like some rapeful barbarian bent
on spooning sand and injecting a
tentacle glistening in the mouth
nightmare of a nightcraft I pant
moan into a rock bleeding as
the inner thighs I’m locked with 
wave over me toward the ocean
temple lights sing and lure
in only to encounter myself
altered
transformed

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?