Joined at the Hip Wank

Daay-am, Mumpsy!
You livered outta da splat box 

yr pie-hole life and now
you’re crying Love Zoat and Bonzie,

or is it glimma-sad Pussy Poucault
ridin’ with dat ditch-slut, Punchy Poazie?

Yous hooked up ‘n married in a month.
Did what yous was taught to, I sees.

Turned your head in jist as if your
hole tit-and-booble wasn’t falling off.

Reals. Right in your crotchtray. If you care
to take a lookie. And, long as you eye-jabbin’,

I’m left here with yr hole ta-blow: A headless joy
dividin’ fisty-cuff stand-up all squiggle-eyed.

You know my braska fangs don’t fancy diamonds.
Go’n holla-be what you really wunt—just not

me watchin’ you weepin’ an a-poopin’.
You, Mumps-so-Didd on yr grind throne.

Me, the hallaquin foreva squishin’ the trip arm.
Don’t say you don’t dun-in-squirt savvy.

Wanna cop it out right here on the noxy lino?
Should I say my earpricks is in Ole Opryland? 

Or, should I leave her be? Leave it all
stuffed into yr Bahama Mama sno cone.

Least you can do is hole it stead and tru.
This here’s hard in the heat—Hicacky-Bootswagger! 

And, finishes with me always stiff-lippy,
my tuff toe-strokingin’ it, then munchin’ it. 

L.A.S.E.R. 

The old L.A.S.E.R.
at the Science Centre.

Big as a locomotive.
Its angry, red beam,
slicing the shit out of
some piece of plastic
for us drooling kids.

The Scientist told us,

The L.A.S.E.R. is an answer
in search of a problem.

I didn’t understand.
I just wanted to shove
his head into the beam.

I was told to go home
and calm down—
way down—
I should learn physics
the good way.

I pissed my pyjamas.
A kid in his spacesuit,
hunting Sputnik. 

Silva Moon

For second yr face looked
as if seen heaven like Kit
Walken’s in The Dream Hunter,
romancy with hate, eyeballs
like ‘98 Dodge headlights,
wet with sparkly sneaka tears.
Sing for me t’nite.
Some soul shit like Scatman
Crothers’ Elephant Mama torch solo.
‘Memba that? ‘Memba when?

Chil’ren watchin’ us ‘gain.
C’mon, slam yr Coors.
I’m gussied up in Halston thrif, so
peck ‘em ‘nite-‘nite and shuv big
dreams of other babes’ names on ‘em.
Like Pokey Puddle ‘n Betsy Combustible.
They wake ‘n seem no worsen us.
C’mon, Holiday Inn’s booked, but
we can bogart couple cots by
the pool at last-mini tiki hour.
Sing for me t’nite.  

‘Memb, we used to call this
Heaven Workaday?
Mustard packs in yr pappy’s Woody?
Spunk, all virginal stink
torpedoes in a rainstorm?
Now, I’m beggin’ ya.
Sing it all back.
Don’t go  askin’ for wut—
vry question cause
my soul disappointance
like Sent Fran or sum cuz sd
in Script. Listen! I’m queefin’— 
don’t look. Yous keep drivin’
thru this last doggie nite.

Lord, silva moon drop dead in ya mouth. 

Not Spitting

Grade 4 or 5.
Don’t need no one
tell me something’s
leaking from my fillings,
going right into my brain.
Makes me batshit.  

I load up my mouth with spit to: 

1) clean my teeth good;
2) see how much I can hold, and
3) not spit. 

I tramp empty halls
on piss break hundred,
chops near poppin’.
Don’t recognize teacher
headin’ my way.
Mid-strut, she coos, 
“And how are we today, Mr. Sean?”

How shit-for-brains shitbird
even knew my name is,
to this day, beyond me.

My mouth goes rat small.
I ope’ my gob.
Let it all go splat. 

Shitbird stops a sec, then
walks away with cock steps.
She ends up fingering me
for crimes against the state
I’m still paying for today
with what words on paper say
is neglected oral hygiene.

How RoboCop Saved Me from the Psychotic Core Residing in the Instability of the Body

It’s 1987. 
On a date,
I manage to get
dog shit smeared
on the sole of my Converse high top.
This, the prelude,
to the best kiss
of my life!
Let me tell you,
my saving grace is
having in mind
at the moment of lips
meeting, Alex Murphy’s hand
exploding from Clarence Boddicker’s
shotgun blast.
The kiss is so light, all
but accidental, and that
makes it perfect.

So, here I am, alone now
in the night, scraping
my sole against the curb.
I’m glad to say, I retain
a smack of Murphy’s blood 
smeared across my mouth. 
A voice calls out, 
“Eat it, shit lips!”
There’s bursts from an Uzi.
Someone tries to shoot my soul
from my body, but with new titanium,
I don’t die. I reboot. I go on 
to live my life,
smooching everyone 
to their last breath 
like the cyborg I am.
Thank you, Omnicorp— 
I love my retractable stiletto.
It interfaces with 
the supercomputer of justice, 
giving me access 
to perfect memoria,
and to jugulars.