Tag: poem

milking male monkeys in heat

A poem.

now i’m sitting in the living room of our Airbnb,

beady-eyed bloodshot and tired –
so tired –

but like a wild misimprinted baby
– i just thought i would give it some pets!
whoopsie-daisy! my bad! –
i’m followed constantly and i can’t take it back,
its steps so loud because the built-in surround sound
can’t pick up the reticent tones of
metaphors unrooted-out

and now i’m sitting on the toilet taking a shit

and i’m very weary and it’s very padded
and she cries out that she’s going to bed.

if i say it for attention it works.
people turn and give me the usual looks reserved
primarily for the patently undercooked
and chock it up to all the antidepressants i took

and the weed,
and the booze –
too much drink and i start crying
because by then i have nothing to lose.
“everyone can leave ANYTIME they choose!”

and now i joke about seppuku.

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a kiss before you pee

A poem.

i am simultaneously appalled by all the intimacy i see
on contemporary TV,
and frustrated that none of it actually actively involves me –

other than as a third-party,
being cuckolded by a wife who would rather experience it through a screen
than with the man she swears she loves unconditionally.
“sex is not the be-all, end-all of our propinquity,
darling-dearest honey sweetie”
and the movie’s full of jokes but she says it’s not a comedy.

thirty years ago you didn’t have to show it,
but if you had the chutzpah to imply the male erection,
you would be lucky if your film went wider than a festival selection.
but as if Scorsese doesn’t already argue daily for media preservation,
there go another dozen new shows each week up for investigation
in this problematic modern streaming pervasion.

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Video: prey

A Visual Poem

Produced in 2011 //wd

Transcript:

tell me a story.

tell me a story about a life.
about a life and a death.
a story about a man from within
from within,
where a body becomes a flower
and a tree becomes its prey.

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up your efforts

A poem.

i’m sitting in her truck
as she drives through an expanse
and i’m hopelessly stuck,
watching for the tells on her face.
my love is late.
my dreams always end this way.

tick tock anticipating,
still staring at a big stupid screen
with Sinéad stuck in the CD player
that needs to be replaced
but these days there isn’t anywhere else
for me to be.

cant get away, rolling
over myself again,

relentless, blistering, reddening –
an early Spring and long-passed petaling,
her ride, her music i’m listening,

lording
how many times before have i
fallen on my sword
because i was bored?
how many afternoons past with plans on plans to get
on track
only to find my way back?
more than the fingers
and toes and
Geppetto’s nose & cock can count.

life wears its hair how one likes just to spite
with a perfect white smile which bites.

//wd 7.29.2023

Photo by Mehmet Turgut Kirkgoz on Pexels.com.

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