Take No Prisoners

Higgely piggely marking time
writing down this nonsense rhyme.
Soothing nerves that cramp and tense,
Hoping rhythm leads to sense.

Setting traps and falling in
Where the victim should have been.
Making plans and plotting ploys
Like life’s a game, emotions toys.

Take us prisoners, he said.
Just willing partners for his bed.
But all of this is just a joke,
To capture her with silky smoke.

Take no prisoners, you say?
He’s hers. She’s his. Have a good day.


Sex Stream

It bothers me you let me have you,
Flesh so cheap and willing
(spilling) cavern filling –
Sonofabitch and somebody’s daughter.

Touch her much and tastely twitching,
Turning worming, overboiling,
Damned itching, always switching,
Crying shaking laughing bitching.

Would I could
(and you said I should)
sleep with you some time,
that’s fine.

let’s get married, godforbid
our children
should be bastards, —
and not mine.

I slept with God
in homosexual pleasure and
— frankly –
Erotically considered,
the Lord is much inferior
to you.

One Untimate Priority

Breathing pulsing bouncing primping,
Looking for the perfect humping,
Sweating on the couch, the floor,
Fearing sounds heard thru the door.
Clutching at the hour, blood crashing.
Daring just this once, teeth gnashing.
Grinding lips and stroking hips,
Probing hollows, biting tips.
Gentle moans and softer suckings –
But poems can’t explain such fuckings.
Write it down? Throw out each version.
Leave not one record of perversion.

It’s bad enough you have to rape her.
Just never write it down on paper.


Ol’ Lil’s Little List

This is dedicated to ol’ Lil’s Little Lists
That I always must refer to, just to see what I have missed.

I remembered well the movie – lots of planning for that night
As we slinked thru distant suburbs, ducking from each stark light.

I remembered to sleep over – all so very intime
And definitely endearing in its oh so special way.

I’m working on the week-end, and I’m hoping for a trip
Tho I’ve changed my travel agent, so no one makes a slip.

It’s just I’m never certain that I’m getting all this right,
And you’re entitled to full measure, and I don’t intend to slight.

It is now a gift you’re wanting? Is the theater overdue?
Please understand, my darling; I can do much more than screw!

Now that I know I’m average, I want to play the game
As well as any average Joe who’s doing just the same.

So, when I ask you for it, please don’t think I’m pissed:
I’m really much in need of ol’ Lil’s Little List.

My Room

I am sick of insinuation in your stare;
Whenever you ascend the stair
To clean my room and change the bedding
You linger over the stained sheets
And curlicues of hair.

I pay my rent
Yet each week is rent
The solitude I weave
Around myself, to which
The willing company of whores is lent.

It’s my own room,
In it is room
To hide from people such as you
Whose reality is shrouded
In your own personal gloom.

Out, damn you, landladybitch,
Miserable bitch,
You’re too old for me anyway
And besides, soon my girl arrives –
She’s quite good, so why switch?


I felt the powdered cheek
upon my own, and knew
it was not so much love
as misapprehension.

It first was more physical
Than psychic, but,
In time (whose time?)
It metamorphosed.

Now it is comfortable.

No more.

No less.

I enjoy it without quite understanding.

Is Lust a Sin of Man?

I was wed unto a woman
Who shed fur in passion
And the dander filled my eyes
With tears when we retired to bed.

So that our chamber window remained open
And the air at night would cool my lids
And give me strength
And give her children.

Now she is dead and I lie alone,
Molting by myself,
An animal who knows it is hard indeed
To have sex and call it love.

First Night

Tonight was Rorschachs writ in blood,
Was answers cut in stone.
Tonight was anger shaped from mud,
Agues in blanched bone.

Tonight was languor in black sheets,
Was aching, surging flood,
Tonight was broken heart-pulse beats,
Tears mixed with acid suds.

Tonight was reaffirming trust,
Related-back retreat,
Where past experiments in lust
Were justified in heat.


Not of a tiger or other beast,
Not with an animal glower,
Not with jungle crafts or stalking guile,
Not yet with sadness, not yet with hatred,
Not yet with fear of tomorrow
Nor of me ….

Rather soft as candles –
Wax melting cool into the corners –
Green vital flame suggested at the core,
More of longings,
Tempting with gentle reproach….

Wide and honest.
Too wide perhaps. Too honest.
Revealing subtle suspicion where none ought dwell,
Revealing distrust where none is justified,
Revealing herself when
She fain would be unto herself a thing apart
and unknown.

Eyes moist with heat:
Caress the universe
And kiss it full upon the lips,
Drawing truth to desire,
‘Til all rests exposed beneath the gaze
That lights the night-time
And, calling forth the legions at dawning,
Bids us do battle beneath the lesser sun of day.


She was the picture of the perfect girl,
Trite down to the wiggle in her curl,
But so taken with domesticity
That she sought to make a husband out of me.
With fleeting glance I would absorb her face
From the secret corners of my secret place
And project her silken features through the years
And resee them ridged with shadows and with tears.
I doubt she ever came to realize
The bitter game I played within my eyes,
Seeing her at first as just a crone,
The lumpy flesh clinging to the bone,
And then distorting all her form and face,
Remolding now her sex and seed and race
‘Til all that stood within my view
Was a rubber mask stretched tight around a screw.

The day I married, her father led her down the aisle.
He wore a white flower, but it was yellow around the edges.
By evening it stank as flesh in a grave, reminding me of my bride’s perfume.

We drove into the Western hills
To partake of those wedded thrills
(oh she was coy, my bride of just a day,
Dangling out her sex in bold array,
As if a snare that used two breasts as bait
with which to find an anxious sleeping mate).
We took a cabin with a mountain view,
Which is the proper thing for all to do,
And when I slowly took apart her dress
And ran my hands across her sweating mess
She closed her eyes and thought –ah, this is life,
To be undressed and be somebody’s wife.

At the wedding her mother spread on purplish face powder.
She looked like a whore, and knowing her I wouldn’t doubt it. I respected the old bitch, though. After all, at least she was honest about it….

We pranced in merry heat up to the bed
And slowly now I stroked her humid head,
Her bony hands with wild abandon flew
Across a land that I alone once knew.
Like a brush dipped deep into the black
Her palm pressed ever firmly on my back
She arched her feeble frame and groaned in hope –
Girls wed syringes filled with wondrous dope.
And just as she began to purr in pain
I put a 38 caliber bullet through her soggy brain.

The very day we were married, her sister’s hand slipped under the table and stroked my knee.
Christ! Some people have no sense of timing.