Same sad song
Same plain chorus
Of heart break
Self pity pop song
The I so malieable
It seems we all play off of
Cliché, clichette, shit in the red
Cheers, beer, insincere
And the million excuses
That make it her fault
Responsibility is drained
Like crushed cigarette bud
from stale lager
The barbed downward spiral
The words make a cell
my dull quill scratched away,
in the aged cheddar walls.
Returning to the ghosts
of my worst years
my branding moments
the growing pains
that left me lanky and flaccid
and I come down the winding stairs
of the estate
cadavers in the clearing
orange flag markers in the mud
of my fat
To be the putty scraped on the door mat
before she steps inside
I let her into my mind
she told me I need
I laughed like
“Couldn’t you tell?”
I love like
wet stones in hell
all the years
slurping out of
I dream of a different suburban wetland
a frigid lack of inspiration
and weathered skill
here I am,
some pitiful sponge
sliding race track straws
up my pucker fish
to find a spine
to graze her cheeks
hold her close
as she chews on the palm of my hand
hacking bread knives in the kitchen
four fingers down, a thumb left.
What else could I possibly give?
Sitting at the peak of the world
Loose paper flapping in hand
More than the leaves from the trees flowing before me
The tree tops earnestly staring at me
Mutilating the corpse of one of their own
With a needle point quill
But I care
But I’m sorry
And that makes it okay
As long as the trigger of the Lugar is pulled
The bullet meant for the commanding officer
Making masculinity miniscule
Then all of the squandered lives of
Perfectly good men
Pump me full of adderall
Heroine, cocaine, tea, cigarettes
Ungodly amounts of caffeine
Until it’s all that I can do
Sit and push out shit
Shaking anxious wrecks
Blowing down walls
While I sit here
ass puckered to the seat
Still ready to die
Still typing away
Like if I stop
The trigger will
And I’ll snap
after a few pots of coffee
I shit like machine gun rounds,
My ass sags like rumple stilts skin
Putrid burning mass graves
Producing poo more impressive
When I meet a woman with a scandalously
The fluffy bunny
Doing back flips
For a carrot
And a stroke
I read her a line or two
Prove my artistry
Probe my brain
Probing with chocolate finger
“that’s not even that impressive
You should see my shits
Gander the goods.
People come from all around
Towns from the far side
of the world
to seize this masterpiece ”
And when they do
The long tapering snake making its way
From the toilet bowl
Down the hall
And out the front door
That’s what gets me laid.
I’ve been fucked over
So many times
Sometimes when I struggle to take a piss
Trying to bleed a stuck pig
I watch my cock
Where it should have been
Now a middle finger
Giving me the bird
“I can’t pay the rent this month.” Dave said as a matter of fact.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there was a family emergency, and they need it more than I do. Family has to come first, Rich.”
“Dave I can see into your room.” Richard leaned to the side, looking over Dave’s shoulder. A pile of bags of Cheetos to the waist.
“What do you need 200 family sized bags of Cheetos for?”
“146 to be exact, Rich. And it’s a religious tradition.
We fill up a small pool of Cheetos, each of us bringing exactly 146 bags, and drop one single apple core, from an apple eaten by Mother’s best hog,
we all dive in the pool and whoever finds it gets a smooch from aunt Agnis.”
His voice floated like a cloud when he spoke her name.
“Not only did you spend your rent on 146 bags of Cheetos,
but you bought these Cheetos so you could kiss your aunt.”
“Woah. Woah.. don’t be a pervert Rich. It’s aunt Agnis, not just any aunt. The billowy, voluptuous, roaming the halls late at night in nothing but a bright red, revealing night gown Aunt Agnis, and this year she will be mine.”
Dave pauses to look off in the distance like an action hero.
“She will be.”
“I just..” Richard’s face turned pale, and his forehead dripped with sweat. “Don’t understand.”
“Maybe it’s time you sat down Dick.”
Bending over to sit down: “It’s Rich, asshole.”
It was then that she walked through the door. Like a kayak on unsteady waters, her hips swayed, and with them, as did the rest of her. Swaying through the door, red lipstick. The only thing I can stand to describe without an extra pair of underwear on hand. She was voluptuous, she was billowy… in the right places.
She was I-chee Wowa.
“I hope you’re not talking to my favorite nephew that way.” Dave turned red.
The heels made a slight clicking sound against the wooden floor.
“Uhm. No. Ma’m. I wouldn’t. I would never.” He nearly keeled over and died right there.
“You better not be.” She pivoted on her heel indicating she was finished.
“Excuse me.” He said it quietly, but.
“Is there any way I could join in tonight’s festivities?” He tried to talk like he’d imagine Hue Hefner would.
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem, Dave.”
She said his name.
“Did you remember the Apple core?” Dave half smiled, the eroticism recognizable at any distance.
“The apple core?”
“Well no one can kiss you without the Apple core.”
“What the hell are you talking about Dave?
I’m not going to kiss you.” She looked distraught.
He looked past her and saw Richard snickering in the far corner of the room.
Even growth is controlled. All of life has turned artificial. Convenience has taken over. It seems that with the direction we are going it won’t be long before I’ll be able to hire a third world worker to wipe my ass.
Her name is Mochikwa and never before have I felt more comfortable with someone wiping my ass. Prior to her I had suffered with a fat brown man, who was far too abrasive and rough with his strokes. In fact his strokes seemed to have no technique to them whatsoever. It was more than apparent that he had not had the proper training to wipe my ass. That’s when I had him deported. If you aren’t competent to wipe my ass then you aren’t competent enough to live in this great nation. Mochika has soft tender hands. In fact, I enjoy the feeling of her hands so much that frequently I will ask her to wipe regardless of whether or not I’ve enjoyed a BM. I got the recommendation for this servant from my father. It seems Mochikwa’s mother worked for him. He said that her mother was even more beautiful, though I find that hard to believe, and even more tender hands? I doubt it.
Our hands look like battlegrounds
From tightened grips
Clawing at sweaty
Pick up the dirt from the ground
Rub a clump
Into the open gash
As long as I can hold your hand
One more time
Stop writing poetry
that sucks dick.