Musings of the Reverend Meduri and Dr. Jackass
Experimentations in Literary Groin Punches
Exercise in Politics Diplomacy Regicide and Amnesty
Dig down under the rough side of carpet step on the other side stick
Gum under chewing floor below wooden legs and false bottoms.
Mouth off the written word give meter stick to dreamy gaze lick
Hearts south of getting there dropping ticker tapes and gay malaise.
Grip swimmingly the breast bowl smothered killing me dicking me kick
Teeth on the clit wearing beads squishing pomade and a rusty broom.
the blurbs of the prophets are written for the shopping malls
where the diseased luridly pose for kitten calls
the kings of the silent die fulfilled with disgust—
when slutterella swoons we watch with lust
the micro is engorged, the macro enflamed;
the stirrer too thin for the sludge brewed home made
the mystery is why we wade so gently in the gloom
as if afraid our moves will bring about our doom.
WReSTLe WHiSTLe WaTeR THiSTLe HaSSLe WRaSTLe WHeRe You NeSTLe NeeDLe NuDGeR ReCoRD oF HeR SCRaTCHiNG SCRaPiNG SKiPPiNG SToPPiNG SaSSiNG PuSHiNG GRiPPiNG PuLLiNG GRoPiNG SuCKiNG SLiPPiNG LiPPiNG LiCKiNG LiKiNG LuLLiNG FaLLiNG FaiLiNG CaLLiNG CaRiNG CaReSSiNG CaLLiNG CaLLiNG CaTCHiNG HeaTeD HaTeD HeaRTy HuNGRy DeaTH DeaLiNG DiaMoND STeaLiNG DoLLaR DRiPPiNG MeRCHaNT MeNaCe MaCHiNe MoTHeR KiLLeR KoRNeR KaLLiNG KaLLiNG KaLLiNG ReaDy ReSPeCT aLReaDy ReSPoND aLReaDy ReTRaCT ReToRT RePLy aLReaDy iS iT SLoW aND STeaDy oR HiGH aND HeaDy Do We FeeL THe RooM Do We HeaL iT aLL SooN?
white men walk in the early hours in breakfast cars
suckling marmalade and sniffing chocolate bars
they eat rasptastic toasty goods made knife in hand
downing the stock exchange and phoning on rubber bands
brush away from this car and trace the atmosphere
dripping freedom sweat and smelling domestic beer
working men wake in the dead of the night
pummeling dragons and swallowing right
the fires stoke with their story’s coal
consuming mother ipso facto and drowning in the shoal
old men in the boiler room,
how many more stops ‘til we’re cut from the loom?