My mother once told me
if it were not for her stretched out cunt,
I’d walk this world with no fame
to claim.
The steady practice of placation melds
the false flesh to your mistaken relation.
Exuberance time and time again misunderstood as
the false prophet.
Taking inclusionary indecencies at face value,
the appearance of acceptance dwelling in the forefront of
our forefathers’ prefrontal cortex,
adhering blinders to the hooven metal clanging the streets in tow.
Due diligence to the painstaking presence in what is slandered “public” proves
my tainted blood all too iron
for everyday consumption.
When the precipice is met
with regal discontent
of a mirror’s unrecognizable casting,
a point is reached internal from which we must not shy.
To embrace this embankment alone, that is
to consciously forgo the connections
castes thrust upon you, is but
a massive undertaking not for the plasticine spirited.
Never to allow yourself to be guided
or forced
upon the cliffs of sovereign onanism,
But actively seeking out that edge
of everywhere
for your own black obsidian. A case against the forced hand
shown in the snapping of spirits
of men,
whose shoulders bear the weight of misfortune not instilled upon since birth.
I’ve tattooed “no apologies” on my urinary tract
in defense of the highly anticipated mob mentality,
lurking around each corner of
the ovarian archways which I steele my time deteriorating in.
Spitting obscenities in high places to giggle my boredom something silent,
as the phlegm thrung abhorrence drapes the walled watchguards. Yes,
I’m admittedly owning my own vivisection
by way of subpar submission.
What else is there
to ascribe myself with
to garner
a handful of gift shop parting pleasantries?
It allows the rent to keep feeding
off my vascular calves,
toned
and shaped
by kneeling with a wide eyed esophagus.
My uvula has been framed accordingly,
willing to bow in attention
for the low low price of “you asked for it”.
But shh,
quiet now,
if the slave-driver, cum
poetic John Hancock whom
haloes my hourly mastication finds the ice cooler
in which
I’ve stashed my one functioning gonad
I’m done for I tell ya.
Hell,
he’ll fillet that fucker with the precision of a dime store Tang-taker,
studied in side stepping any bit of brilliance
in favor of befuddlement.
If I were able to count my blessings, you bet
my sleeping hard-on would gently self mutilate
in gentian violet genital envy.
Lol,
I slipped that one in there for all the eunuchs in attendance,
unable to fathom the cancerous colon of
the written word,
proliferating People Magazine
with the same mouth which blew raspberries on their mother’s uterine wall
as they slipped out sideways,
begging for the exhilaration of a doctor daddy’s ass handling,
only able to gasp at open air with the full force of a man’s hand
in a soiled uniform.
There’s something to be said about speaking through your nose,
granting grunts by the couplets,
masquerading an inner life
with muscular atrophy.
Allowing a gaggle of exuberance the film rights to my bloody stool
surpasses the audience more so than a crisp pair of jockeys
strung high from a fan blade.
Whatever happened to good old fashioned extremity?
Coddled to completion by diluting O’Hara’s lunchtime follies down
to used Q-tips and
biodegradable candy wrappers?
That’s not to say I don’t love myself a liquid
but all too many eat themselves between the lines, when
a poem is meant to measure
your inability to orgasm in proximity to Whole Foods.
I arrange my erections in alphabetical order, starting with your weekend warrior lust for life. Each guttural yelp I
emit in place of Hello meant as substitution
for the realization of being grouped into the singular public, sharing
the same platform I edge in dissatisfaction
until I’m willing to own
my own
bacterial backup
in refusal of any orgasm you recommend.