20210728.0430

To say
I told you so
Is cold comfort when
The thing predicted
Happens
And you and I and others are
Fucked
As I well know
Because
Well
I told you so

20210621.0430

Do you do you
The same when you read
As when you fuck
And if you do not
Do you really think
The writer does the writer's self
The same
When the pen is in hand as
When a dick is
And if you do
Do you satisfy as much as you are satisfied
And how swiftly do you sleep
Face falling between the open pages?

20201019.0430

It's usually the slammed car door
Or rumbling diesel engine coming just a bit too close
That interrupts the susurration of
Cars driving past on the nearby streets or
The joyful ululation of
Children leaving class in their parents' care
But sometimes it is wailing sirens
Electric bean sidhe screaming down the way
And
On occasion
Some obnoxious fuck
Blaring bad videos at full volume
Heedless of others' peace
Guess which it was today

20200930.0430

They balk at such words as speak of lust
Swellings of breast and cock and clit
Claiming their faith inveighs against them
When the song of their wisest king of old
Says her breasts are like deer too young to hunt
And other verses speak in their holy text
Of donkey dick and horse cum
The Tijuana show of old in the temple book

20200822.0430

I might lay my head in Summer's lap
And put my tongue to country matters
Tasting juicy bush-borne fruit
Or instead let her unaccustomed softness
Lull me to a lustless sleep
I would be refreshed either way I lie with her

20200811.0430

Oblique references
Reducing so many things to
Thrusting and splatting
Finding fucking in as much as can
What, then, does the sex stand in for
What metonym or synecdoche
Whole for its dangling parts?

20200802.0430

Remember
When they tell you
Speak good English
The way it used to be
Shit
Was in the language centuries before
Beautiful entered it

20200603.0430

Against the long systemic horror
When those currently impotent long for the day they can do the fucking
And do not want to wear a condom when they do
There are no little blue pills that are effective
Indeed
Such small things in such a color seem to be the problem
Not the solution

20200429.0430

If April leaves us drenched by showers
When she comes
One has to wonder with whom she was on
March
Though it is clear that May and June get something out of it
Coming after as they do

20200428.0430

There is a reason Phoebus and Helios
Tend toward the west
Moving whither Zephyrus labors
Longing towards that blowing
And I cannot argue with it
Enjoying the same

20200247.0430

Eurus is not so callow as has been held
His emissions making sails swell and bulge out from
The structures that have held them aloft
Pushing cargo that pitches up and down
Along old paths long since known
And emulated even now despite
Thrumming machines and pumping pistons
Working to make things complete

20200423.0430

How many are taking the money
Promised by the painted toadstool-dicked
And how many are about to find themselves
Fucked by the same
Pounded again from behind
Briefly but still for far too long
And left without aftercare
Taking a small blown load because
Some money is better than none
And regretting it but not denying the need?
We are all of us whores.
Some are more honest, and more power to them.
But none of us aren't
And we should remember more fondly those who are more open.

20200422.0430

Waiting to be stimulated
A prick about to push in and pump away
With some thought of engendering new life and growth
But it must be remembered that many fail to find the clitoris
And leave unsatisfied whom they hope to visit again
But what does he care who simply wants to fuck people
Over

20200324.0430

The old poet writes that
Lesbia peels men in the back alleys
And readers have known the peeling for
A thing done before the cock crows
And perhaps it is
A drier and less common trick
Turned for a butcher's fee
Paid for a piece of rump roast
Or bone-in ham
But perhaps it is
A thing done less happily
Not so much opening the satyr's gift where
The package will be tucked away again
But
A split in the wrapping that
Lets a different fluid flow that
Life demands
Because the hand is not all that tears
With too much rubbing on it

20200222.0430

They hear the sloppy-plumaged cock crowing from
Another farm whose fields are well manured with the
Shit from generations of overeating
And strut and crow themselves
Bantam roosters who do not understand
The hatchet that's been pulled from the stump because
The gripping hand is not at their throats
Yet

20200216.0430

I do not have a Muse
I have many such
Not so much the fields and forests and fountaining springs
That many make much of
Nor yet always or necessarily often
The soft swellings of hip and thigh and breast
Or the harder swellings of rippling muscle and tumescent cock
I enjoy such, certainly
Delight in them and their exercise
And their use to exorcise from myself
No few things that I have shown and that I have yet to show
But what I have most had in mind as I have spilled my creative juices
Working with a shaft that might seem too narrow and short to that purpose
Is not so happy a thing as that
Oh, no
It is a multitude
A ravening horde about which I write most
Often and voluminously
Ejaculating my anger onto the page
Onan come again
And just as beloved by the god I abjure
As he by the god he had been thought to serve

20200214.0430

I kneel before your glory
Put my tongue to the service of your praise
Heedless of any audience but you
And the sounds of you enjoying my performance
Are as good a reward as any applause
And the drink you pour me after
Is better yet

20200104.0430

They say that this, too, shall pass
As if it were merely a bit of gas
Released from and rattling the cheeks of an ass
Echoing briefly and stinking a bit
But it is instead a pile of shit
That lingers and festers and makes decrepit
The floor where it sits and it stains

20200102.0430

If they would fuck themselves alone
I'd gladly say "to each their own"
And go about my day
But they decide to fuck me, too
Despite that I don't want to do
Things in quite that way
I try to push back, try to fight
But that just adds to their delight
And helps not, anyway

20191226.0430

There is always danger in returning again to the work
That I should have long since left behind as done
With me. Every time I find my way back to it once again
Try to sneak in through some gutter or postern
I find myself subsumed in some small task the work demands
But that is not the total of the work. Perhaps that's why
I never did succeed in it, that the one small part
Of what ought to be a much greater whole
Swallows me up until I find myself shat out again
And flushed somewhere far away