Some Poems from Today

Here are my firstlings of my hand today.

I wanted to post them, then I must away on errands.



     The Poem That Took the Place of a Porn Star

         (for Wallace Stevens)


This line would have been mesmerizing, whackjob as Japanese cartoon hentai fucking.
This line would have been moist as a stonergirl and fingered itself for you.
This line would have put that finger in its mouth like a Playboy bunny,
and savored the taste. And this line? Why it would have pulled a train,
a multiracial ethnic horde, while humming Britney's "Womanizer."

This line would have been transparently Stroganoff, almost cavalier,
which pose this line would have caustically skewered, accelerating
readers into a sudden metaphysical bumper car whiplash here, or a starfucker trope.
This line would shrug its shoulders like Jenna Jameson at a stockholders' meeting,

& this couplet: an armored asshole cocksprung wheelchair of a metaphor,

posing as a humble servant of the art we all love & cherish.





     Indecent Poem


This poem is not Rasputin.
Not even close. Nor does it care.
This poem wants to take your pulse
in a disinterested manner,
the old-fashioned way, holding your flesh
in warm flesh of its hand.
And you will be quiet
because you think this poem
is counting out your pulse, your life's blood.
Then this poem will smile
at you and say, "You know,
I'm not really a nurse.
I act in porn films.
Okay, nobody actually films me
but I'm in a lot of them."
And then you will swallow hard,
looking for the nearest door
behind this poem, which is now fondling
its imaginary breasts in your presence.






     Slut Poem


This poem is a whore.
It has slept with so many other poems,
that when you pick up the telephone ringing
at the center of this poem
the voice on the other end asks,
"What time can I bend you over?"
"Excuse me!" this poem says
in mock-chastity, and looks
at its biological poem-clock
which, oddly enough, always reads
"TOO LOOSE FOR IMMORTALITY. TOO TIGHT FOR A DECENT FUCK."

This is a Hello Kitty clock
with a finely-tuned poetic movement.





     Poem after the Greek Anthology about the Eternal Recurrence of Good Fucking


Waves of an ocean still flutter at my nipples.
Eros cockteases the ancient urge,
probably a motherfucker, as Ares hinted.
Aphrodite can't keep love out of her bush.
An ocean I asked for, ages ago,
then tried to return, my anguish at the RETURNS counter
made into an embarrassing YouTube video.
Blue and soft and sexy and adamantine.
Ionian curls, pubic excellence.
Stupid moisture that organs die for.
It makes no sense. I know.
You are completely contained and boundless. A sky.
Ocean, I disown you. But you have discovered
these comment boxes in the afterlife
and abuse them mercilessly. I try to moderate
comments but my settings must be snafued.
Like yesterday, you left a link to mythic
paintings of us fucking in several gods' beds
while they were out partying. Orgasm-diligent kids.
I start to explain my indiscretions to imaginary people
but your comment waves come on, hissing sexy Greek,
drown me out and I find another sarcastic link:
SHOWER OF GOLD UP THE BUTT OVER AND OVER
left at the end of one of my better cyber-soliloquys,

my Argive blog widowhood.





     Another Greek One


I can't have your hands
anymore, but your ghost
inevitably ass-gooses me,
tho I don't smile.

You'll get some deathbed fruit,
no doubt, tho you're
just a cock now,
an andoyne, a dream's

chewing gum I stick
under the bedframe when I wake. Stupid gurl.