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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