Drunken Fools

The Red Sox lost for 86 years in a row,But still they showed up to Fenway.It made for a comfortable hometo all of Boston’s drunks.New York can have their World Series,I just want $7 bleacher seatsand $2 beers.That’s really winning.

New World Sex Orders

Just a quick warning – this poem has caused people to: get up and walk out of readings, threaten me with severe injury, yell equally obscene things, etc. In short, this poem often offends people. If you are offended by anything you’ve seen so far, I’d suggest you not read this. If you are not so easily offended, then by all means, read on. If you’re under thirteen, I hope you have learned to think for yourself, otherwise, you may not want to read on. If you’re over thirteen, that’s your own damn fault; quit your whining and move on already.
But to give it the proper intro, I wrote this bit of prose that I think of as free form poetry without a page big enough to hold each line, shortly after I got off the phone with my mother. At the time, we were discussing the frame that defines the debate on pornography; me on the side of “it liberates women, is cool, etc.” and my mother on the other side. But I’d been discussing how so often in porn, the “money shot” is a load on the face, and I wondered at the implications. Then I came across some wretched Bush thing and this was the culmination of the two.


Jerk my cock and stroke my nipples until I cum
gallons of cum washing down the mountain of my head
stripe the lanes of this little road we walk with it.
Isn’t it what we want; Cum inside our eyes and our noses and our mouths and our ears, and our asses?
Isn’t this what we’ve all been waiting for, the next scene will only be the credits, are we all there?
Cum all over the windshield as I drive. It’s coating everything. Everything is under its dominion.
I have fallen subject to the pornographic wishes of an ever so noticeable idiot where I now have a gun and a ruck sack, not a fuck sack. Can I have a drink?
Can I drink my sorrows away after I’ve killed all that I can kill today? It’s just a prick, a small needle in my back where the penises are put, tiny penis shaped transmitters sending out the details of my movements.
Daddy is a cunt and he anxiously awaits my return, cock, balls, deep drawls, and everything TEXAS! We’re big here in this new order where the fries can chase you down and we will have a hydrogen car! We will have that thing in our asses that makes us walk far, on patrol, in a country we never learned about in school. Was that stick-it-up-our-ass-a-stan, or did we just take over Rhode Island?
I know, I know, it’s a need to know basis, but shouldn’t the executioners be convinced of the crimes of the condemned? Is it just my job to flip a switch without consequence or conscience? Is my job just to fluff the stars cock? Should I stop?
What if I bite down? Will the show go on? Or is that civil disobedience?

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Ode to Modernity & Dylan

it’s all over now, queen jane. it’s down tubes and through grinders (teeth, chew, teeth, chew) it’s the life of regret revisited in death camps for the old, on prison cots waiting for life. it’s all over now, queen jane.

Journeys Ends

A new Journey is what I need a horse to replace this one that’s been my trusty steed; elegance in eloquence I’ve arrived to turn over my deeds to these homes where I never sleep, to these fields that I never keep, to this love that has not made a peep, to this world that … Read moreJourneys Ends

the pope is dead

The pope is dead.dot.damn.dot.dead.dot.dead holy.dot.dead. well fed pigs at a trough, sleeping jerks dream cream colored screams. dot.dead. … dot . dead. not dead not dead not dead no offense no defense, no slips to trip undressing in pleasing essence of lives in doubt, in grace periods between payments for pavements of ripped up screaming … Read morethe pope is dead

The Gift

it is your formLying asleep (on my pillow),that pulls my soulfrom my heart.it is your breathHeard faintly (over my rushing blood),that fills my heartwith your soul.it is your eyesSeeing things (i cannot)that beckons my approachto your lips.i am isolated in your kiss,frozen in the exploration lenguaof all the words that are not  – because to start … Read moreThe Gift

Soapbox Artist: collecting art & literature of the worst kind