Operation
scalpel in my hand
patient on operating table
I’m about to make him wish
I was a doctor
scalpel in my hand
patient on operating table
I’m about to make him wish
I was a doctor
I always wrote poems
But I never told anyone
That I wrote poems
But one time when I was
11 I drank half my mum’s
Bottle of port while I babysat
My baby sister
And I told the hot chick who
Lived next door to me
That I wrote poems
And showed her my note pad
Of love poems
Because I wanted her to
fall in love with me but she
Just she just comforted me and
Said her boyfriend
Wrote poems too
But he was strung out
On heroin and I was just an
11 year old kid
Drunk on port
Listening to Micheal Jackson
And Paul McCartney records
He could have kicked my ass
If he knew I was hitting on his
Woman but he got jumped
By some wog kids
At a playground near
My house and
They cut him up pretty bad
And poetry never got
Me laid
But it has always ever
Since made me feel
Like a little kid
In a world full of
Real motherfuckers
for years
i laughed at the yoga people
the weird contortions
rapid breathing
clothing
foam bricks
monotone instruction videos
and mats
all to feel better and relieve stress
but that all changed one day
in the walk-in closet
i swear this was the longest
period any woman
had ever had
one for the record books
the lack of sex
driving me insane
i couldn’t take it anymore
i attacked her in the closet
fortunately
she grabbed a rolled-up yoga mat
for us to fuck on
what we did in there
could best be described
as team yoga for nudists
with positions such as
the doggy, the plough, and cum cobra
when we finished
i noticed the puddles of fresh blood
on the now speckled yoga mat
and realized it had worked
i was now relaxed, free of stress,
and anxiously awaiting my next
yoga session
I used to want to cum on a woman’s toes,
but now I just want to cum on my wife’s heart.
When we made the nuke
we must have thought
“Well shit,
we have made it this far,
and everything is still awful
let’s fuck it up now
good and
proper”
Seal the last letter
to the end of the world
in a cum sock
Why must I dig up the bones of the long dead?
Fall face-first into graves opened like ulnar arteries?
Pry open the cellar door
And let these corpses stumble out
Into the morning light?
Tombs are sealed for good reason
And unmarked resting places
Should stay that way
But the folly
Of the loins and the heart
Never learns a thing
And tonight, I have a taste
For almost-forgotten flesh
Art is trying to use a burning
cream
To sooth a wound
You can’t see
A wound very close to where
You shit from
Art is the burn that the cream
Leaves when none of your
Ailments are soothed
Art is a very funny lie
You use to be insane.
To get away with what you can.
Art is a burning asshole.
I just can’t help myself.
I know that her pussy is under
That pencil skirt, Trimmed and pure
And slightly clammy,
But I just have to sit here
And listen to her explain
The benefits of depositing
My money into saving accounts
Or investments.
All I can think about is
Investing time in depositing
Something of mine
Inside her.
Fucking hell—
I have a problem.