3 Poems

COUNTING PEOPLE

I'd like to stalk something less depressing now.
I could use your tangy piece of ass
To be either really bland or accepting.
So I get on the bus from JFK and all the people were saying
They've been on the bus for over a half an hour.
And then I said are you fucking kidding me.
Two months have gone by since I directly understood what day it is.
Sometimes I think that the more aware of current events I am
The better my poems will present themselves as protest or rebuttal.
I could use a piece of ass.
I should fight in the war.
I would kill the man next to me.
I could then dig up this dead man's mother's corpse and strip her of her death dress
And take the dead man's cock, probably still erect due to the ecstasy of death, and shove
It up his dead mother's corpse's cunt, probably only bones but lubed enough by
Maggot eggs and mud to make insertion easy, and twist it around like a twinkle
Until my hand goes numb.
As a result, I bet I'd become friends with more government agents.
They'd have no other choice since I'm now in the Navy.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy what I'm doing with retail and stuff.
Take the ads from the '80's.
Yo it do sound so crazy!
A slit of my wrists is regulated
By the rat's ass squirming underneath my writing desk.
Seventh Heaven helps me pee.
The rat's ass provides a late night stand-up routine.
The rat's ass is a photograph standing in for my mother.
I think it's mother died from a bout of political change.
The more aware of current events I am the easier it is to slit my wrists.
The rat's ass says I should slit my wrists now.
It says my words are its limitation.
My mother agrees as she ass sucks the rat's ass.
It's like a dream.
The man next to me would hold my cock if he could.
No war will erase the time it takes me to decide what may be and why.
The man says before you knock it at least try to give his corpse a blow job.
Two months have gone by and it's been like a dream.
People bore me to fucking death
As they embark on their protests or rebuttals.
I give Daddy my roar.
He's never full anymore.



ETHER NIPPLE

I am sitting next to five warpaths under a dim and low cordless. Throttles scotch like ravens and subterranean escapades. Onions look across at me with a snide envy. Thongs enjoy intercoms on the blade. Splendid infamy orchestrates the rear of a suggestive nut. Eyes jiggle. Music from my women takes leave. Movements correspond to conversions. The wedgie of a gruff trigger explains the weak and hobbles return. The air is not yet liquid but resembling the cold not yet air. Both ways and an ether nipple leaks indignation as the dead pavement attaches itself through autofellatio. I have always known that at last I would take this road but yesterday I did not know that it would be today.



WATER

I am cooking at the stove and the water
Is impossible.
I realize the knots beyond it.
And the more she sees of my face, the less reliable
I become.
A sense of the dark forms words to know.
The snow towards what's taken black.