. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Friday, February 24, 2012

The Violence

A poem from another series called The Lewd Tales, from another corner of my mind, inspired mostly by texts to a friend, where in the confined closed-door sessions of those dialogues my degenerate art flows like honey in a hot kettle to my fingertips on the touch pad...

Be a sweet tiger pushing your furry cock and balls 
     through a thick plate glass window,
Thought you were the bones of Michael Jackson dancing 
     moon-style to the smooth jazz crescendo,
Heron turned heroine in the thick black lips of my labia laden libido 
     slurping up the last blood stained cum from the carpet 
          next to the year-old bag of Cheeto’s,
Slush puppy,
Slush puppy,
Hush puppy naw,

Took ya’ titties from your chest and made coffee cups 
     with the milk skin and the exposed tissue mess,
Told me that you hate the word and begged my penance to 
     from now on call them breasts,
Using yellowed semen to fill in the circles on my scantron test taken 
     in the rear of the restaurant where we use the eyes of homeless men 
          as marbles to beat each other’s best,
Slush puppy,
Slush puppy,
Mush puppy naw,

Would you dare drop two sharp copper pennies into a 
     scrotum full of worms and expect spaghetti,
A hooker’s nipples in my mouth and blood farts on the wall 
     like glistening globules of crimson confetti,
Headed somewhere south tomorrow with a rusted and unsteady machete 
     in a sheath of rotting sheep’s skin to wander willy-nilly upon 
          those bastard plains of the Serengeti,
Slush puppy,
Slush puppy,
Don’t rush puppy naw.


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