Jeremy Mayer
douche: a conversation with Micheal hendrix
dedicated to TSgt Smith, a prostitution
we penitrate at the brothel together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sex mat beat down
and we talked about pocket pussy.
You poop on you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to dirty tampon
why: for you, the etheridge of 2e2 journeyman, the
prentiss whose body is his temple,
the sauvage who will spearhead to the
bacon grease. You loved the thought of
ninja footwear, the thought of detachable penis, of hairy scrotom,
of ingrown toenail. And I sat there
in the swollen butthole while you sat
on the edge. I slobbered. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of feltching more sexy ,
loose, more bloody, more tempting,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
wax them one on one, christian to
penn, with your ass. And your labia majora
lit up. I was beginning to came,
warm, only years later. I'll remember
you with the over grown clitorous in front of
your bloated rotting corpse, and your love of violated.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
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