I Talk to You in My Head
I talk to you in my head.
In my head you understand everything I said.
We share the same political views.
You know the words “propaganda” and “ideology.”
You’ve read my anarchist critique of minimal state libertarianism,
my defense of eliminative materialism,
my papers on French feminism and Lesbian ethics.
You understand why I hate my mother.
You know the revolution is not imminent,
and the horrid compromises that ensue.
When I’m riding the red line on my way to see your show,
the other passengers see that I’m engaged in passionate conversation
with the voice in my head—the voice that is you.
But when I see you,
I don’t want to talk.
I just want you
to fuck my brains out.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
I Love You for Sentimental Reasons
I Love You for Sentimental Reasons
I love you for obvious reasons.
Your cock up my ass for one.
Your tongue in my mouth for another.
The way you look at me.
Your eyelashes.
Your fingertips.
What are you doing tomorrow?
What are you doing
for the rest of your life?
I’ve got my legs spread.
I’ve got my mouth wide open
like a kid in a candy store.
You can play me all your records.
Show me your yearbook pictures.
I don’t care if you were a geek
or a nerd. To me
you’re my hero
come to save the day.
I love you for obvious reasons.
Your cock up my ass for one.
Your tongue in my mouth for another.
The way you look at me.
Your eyelashes.
Your fingertips.
What are you doing tomorrow?
What are you doing
for the rest of your life?
I’ve got my legs spread.
I’ve got my mouth wide open
like a kid in a candy store.
You can play me all your records.
Show me your yearbook pictures.
I don’t care if you were a geek
or a nerd. To me
you’re my hero
come to save the day.
Covering Up Tattoos
Covering Up Tattoos
Lots of people nowadays have tattoos.
Lots of people nowadays
feel they have to hold onto jobs
for various reasons, such as money,
health insurance, mortgages or rent,
parental approval, debt
(student loan and credit card),
social status, child support,
sense of purpose,
contributing to society,
impressing sexual conquests, etc..
Lots of jobs have dress codes
in which it is explicitly stated
that employees should not have
visible tattoos. Somehow,
it is considered unprofessional,
even though lots of people have them,
including people with money
and pop stars with major record label deals.
And in our jobs they want us to “have fun,”
“be part of a team,” which means
identifying with the corporate culture,
which means not doing anything
to freak out the straight white people.
For some people getting tattoos
is the alternative to buying jewelry
from Tiffany’s. Hear me out.
Instead of commemorating
momentous life events
by purchasing jewelry,
they get tattoos.
Instead of buying something
to wear, they mark a life’s
accomplishment, trial and tribulation,
torturous and arduous lesson learned,
brain- and earth-shaking love,
by marking their skin permanently
with a tattoo.
But tattoos they are not allowed
to show at the workplace.
Despite all the policies and parties
and retreats and meetings where
the purpose is to make you feel
like you’re part of the team,
part of a beneficial gift
to society, in truth,
they don’t want to see who
you really are. They don’t want
you to show who you really are.
They want you to cover up
your tattoos. The symbols
of you that you felt so strongly
about that you had to have them
tattooed into your skin forever,
or until you revise them
with more tattoo art,
you have to hide.
Some cover them up with
band-aids or long-sleeved
shirts. But it’s a physical
metaphor. Even though
I don’t have tattoos,
I know I have to keep
myself covered up,
behind wraps, never to be
revealed, despite jovial coaxing.
I can’t show the mile-posts of my lives,
the accomplished goals, the life-changing loves.
They don’t really want to see me.
They don’t want to see my tattoos.
They don’t want to see the events
and work and sorrow and love
and striving and heartbreak
that made me who I am.
They want to see the me
who can be marketed,
who can be sold,
and that me doesn’t
have a history, a personality,
a unique identity. That me
doesn’t have tattoos.
Lots of people nowadays have tattoos.
Lots of people nowadays
feel they have to hold onto jobs
for various reasons, such as money,
health insurance, mortgages or rent,
parental approval, debt
(student loan and credit card),
social status, child support,
sense of purpose,
contributing to society,
impressing sexual conquests, etc..
Lots of jobs have dress codes
in which it is explicitly stated
that employees should not have
visible tattoos. Somehow,
it is considered unprofessional,
even though lots of people have them,
including people with money
and pop stars with major record label deals.
And in our jobs they want us to “have fun,”
“be part of a team,” which means
identifying with the corporate culture,
which means not doing anything
to freak out the straight white people.
For some people getting tattoos
is the alternative to buying jewelry
from Tiffany’s. Hear me out.
Instead of commemorating
momentous life events
by purchasing jewelry,
they get tattoos.
Instead of buying something
to wear, they mark a life’s
accomplishment, trial and tribulation,
torturous and arduous lesson learned,
brain- and earth-shaking love,
by marking their skin permanently
with a tattoo.
But tattoos they are not allowed
to show at the workplace.
Despite all the policies and parties
and retreats and meetings where
the purpose is to make you feel
like you’re part of the team,
part of a beneficial gift
to society, in truth,
they don’t want to see who
you really are. They don’t want
you to show who you really are.
They want you to cover up
your tattoos. The symbols
of you that you felt so strongly
about that you had to have them
tattooed into your skin forever,
or until you revise them
with more tattoo art,
you have to hide.
Some cover them up with
band-aids or long-sleeved
shirts. But it’s a physical
metaphor. Even though
I don’t have tattoos,
I know I have to keep
myself covered up,
behind wraps, never to be
revealed, despite jovial coaxing.
I can’t show the mile-posts of my lives,
the accomplished goals, the life-changing loves.
They don’t really want to see me.
They don’t want to see my tattoos.
They don’t want to see the events
and work and sorrow and love
and striving and heartbreak
that made me who I am.
They want to see the me
who can be marketed,
who can be sold,
and that me doesn’t
have a history, a personality,
a unique identity. That me
doesn’t have tattoos.
OMNISEXUAL
OMNISEXUAL
People ask, "So what are you? Straight? Lesbian? Bisexual?"
And the response I give is, "I'm omnisexual.
I get turned on by men, women, produce, kitchen appliances,
patio furniture, house plants, canned soup, chocolate, playgrounds,
shoe stores, medical equipment, ice cream, power tools, etc.,
and you name it."
"So you're bisexual."
"Yes, and queer and kinky and perverted."
"So, who do you like better, men or women?
"I like gay men and straight women."
I've been called "The Bisexual Bridge."
People say to me, "I thought I was gay (or straight)
until I met you. Now I think I'm bi."
And drag queens. I'm totally into drag queens.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a drag king
before it was even called that.
In the locker room after gym
I would dance and strut on the benches singing "Macho Man."
Also I would imitate Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones
and Peter Frampton.
I've never been successfully monogamous in my life.
I tried, but now I've given up trying. It's not my thing.
I like group sex and public sex and rough sex and gentle sex and
loving sex and cruel sex and quickie sex and all day long sex and
afternoon sex and morning sex and late night sex and
drunken sex and sober sex and spiritual sex and satanic sex.
I like to bottom and I like to top.
I like to be Mommy and I like to be Daddy's girl, and
I like to be Daddy and I like to be Momma's boy.
I like email sex and phone sex and MySpace sex.
Any orifice; any tool; any prop is okay by me.
(Though, in general, I prefer to avoid anything that would lead
to a trip to the emergency room and police inquiries.)
I like them old and young and in between.
It's the enthusiasm, that's the thing.
I like them thin and plump, tall and short, big and small.
It's the attitude, not the amplitude.
I like to fuck and to be fucked
again and again.
I fuck in my dreams and
when I wake up
I fuck some more.
People ask, "So what are you? Straight? Lesbian? Bisexual?"
And the response I give is, "I'm omnisexual.
I get turned on by men, women, produce, kitchen appliances,
patio furniture, house plants, canned soup, chocolate, playgrounds,
shoe stores, medical equipment, ice cream, power tools, etc.,
and you name it."
"So you're bisexual."
"Yes, and queer and kinky and perverted."
"So, who do you like better, men or women?
"I like gay men and straight women."
I've been called "The Bisexual Bridge."
People say to me, "I thought I was gay (or straight)
until I met you. Now I think I'm bi."
And drag queens. I'm totally into drag queens.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a drag king
before it was even called that.
In the locker room after gym
I would dance and strut on the benches singing "Macho Man."
Also I would imitate Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones
and Peter Frampton.
I've never been successfully monogamous in my life.
I tried, but now I've given up trying. It's not my thing.
I like group sex and public sex and rough sex and gentle sex and
loving sex and cruel sex and quickie sex and all day long sex and
afternoon sex and morning sex and late night sex and
drunken sex and sober sex and spiritual sex and satanic sex.
I like to bottom and I like to top.
I like to be Mommy and I like to be Daddy's girl, and
I like to be Daddy and I like to be Momma's boy.
I like email sex and phone sex and MySpace sex.
Any orifice; any tool; any prop is okay by me.
(Though, in general, I prefer to avoid anything that would lead
to a trip to the emergency room and police inquiries.)
I like them old and young and in between.
It's the enthusiasm, that's the thing.
I like them thin and plump, tall and short, big and small.
It's the attitude, not the amplitude.
I like to fuck and to be fucked
again and again.
I fuck in my dreams and
when I wake up
I fuck some more.
Pedestrian Rage
Pedestrian Rage
You’ve heard of road rage, of course,
when the frustration of sharing the road
with inconsiderate putzes and assholes
gets to those drivers who
just can’t take it anymore and
they start shooting their fellow
road-hogs. Those are the most
extreme cases. Milder cases of
road rage are happening all the time
in the form of flipping people off,
swearing, throwing things, and
driving even more aggressively, etc..
Well I have pedestrian rage.
You may think I actually mean sidewalk rage,
because that would be the analogous construction,
and I do have rage on the sidewalk,
but also when I’m crossing the street,
or in the shopping mall or grocery store.
I avoid going to the grocery store
or mall on busy Saturdays because I just know
I’m going to kill someone. And my rage
is not just for my fellow pedestrians,
but also cars, bicycles, roller skaters,
baby strollers, wheelchairs, walkers, etc..
And dogs! If I didn’t find them too repulsive
to be near I would certainly kill them
and bake them into doggy pies
and feed them to their obnoxious,
oblivious owners who let their dogs shit
everywhere so it gets in peoples’ shoe treads
and keeps getting spread around, stinking up the place.
And dog shit definitely smells worse than people shit.
Why am I so mad? Well I’ll tell you.
The main reason is that people are slow
and won’t get out of my way.
How can they not understand
that when you’re on the sidewalk and
there are people behind you, you can’t
just stop in the middle of the sidewalk or
walk at a snail’s pace and block anyone
from getting around you and passing you?
Don’t they understand that some of us
have places to go?! Or people who come
to the end of the escalator and just stand
there so that everyone behind them ends
up smashing into them if they can’t
squeeze around them. But there’s more.
There are the drivers who come
speeding around the corner so fast
I think they’re going to run me down
when I have the light. So when that happens
I scream at the top of my lungs
“I HAVE THE LIGHT, ASSHOLE!”
while giving them the finger and crossing the street,
and those motherfuckers just have to wait
BECAUSE IT’S MY FUCKING TURN.
But the people who cross against the light
on a busy street have earned my wrath as well.
They mess everyone up. The cars can’t obey
their light without running them over,
so the cars end up in the middle of the street,
trying to turn, when pedestrians who do follow
the lights finally get the green.
Is it any wonder that things in
this country are so fucked up
when people can’t even figure out
how to follow traffic lights?
What could be simpler than red and green?
Even porn stars get what red and green mean.
Maybe porn stars should be running the country.
Maybe to be allowed to vote, or even just drive,
people should have to submit a porn movie
of themselves doing an S & M scene
where red meant stop and green meant go.
If knowing what they meant was the only way
to have any control over how much pain
you were feeling in your pussy, or
how tight your ball stretcher was,
you’d figure it out or be sorry.
And why are those bicycles on the sidewalks
when the sign clearly says
“No Bicycles on the Sidewalk”
in pictorial form, so not being able to read
isn’t even an excuse. What do they think
that big line across the picture of the bicycle means?
And if you can’t maneuver
one of those big double or quadruple strollers,
maybe you shouldn’t have had so many kids
or maybe you shouldn’t take them out of the house
all at once until they can walk.
And if you can’t work your wheelchair or walker,
hire a damn healthcare worker to push you.
I’m sure there’s lots of people who would like the job.
Or just don’t leave home, because
I sure as hell am not going to pick you up
off the sidewalk when you tip over.
I’m more likely to kick you all over and
stomp on your face and
wipe the dog shit from my shoes on you.
You’ve heard of road rage, of course,
when the frustration of sharing the road
with inconsiderate putzes and assholes
gets to those drivers who
just can’t take it anymore and
they start shooting their fellow
road-hogs. Those are the most
extreme cases. Milder cases of
road rage are happening all the time
in the form of flipping people off,
swearing, throwing things, and
driving even more aggressively, etc..
Well I have pedestrian rage.
You may think I actually mean sidewalk rage,
because that would be the analogous construction,
and I do have rage on the sidewalk,
but also when I’m crossing the street,
or in the shopping mall or grocery store.
I avoid going to the grocery store
or mall on busy Saturdays because I just know
I’m going to kill someone. And my rage
is not just for my fellow pedestrians,
but also cars, bicycles, roller skaters,
baby strollers, wheelchairs, walkers, etc..
And dogs! If I didn’t find them too repulsive
to be near I would certainly kill them
and bake them into doggy pies
and feed them to their obnoxious,
oblivious owners who let their dogs shit
everywhere so it gets in peoples’ shoe treads
and keeps getting spread around, stinking up the place.
And dog shit definitely smells worse than people shit.
Why am I so mad? Well I’ll tell you.
The main reason is that people are slow
and won’t get out of my way.
How can they not understand
that when you’re on the sidewalk and
there are people behind you, you can’t
just stop in the middle of the sidewalk or
walk at a snail’s pace and block anyone
from getting around you and passing you?
Don’t they understand that some of us
have places to go?! Or people who come
to the end of the escalator and just stand
there so that everyone behind them ends
up smashing into them if they can’t
squeeze around them. But there’s more.
There are the drivers who come
speeding around the corner so fast
I think they’re going to run me down
when I have the light. So when that happens
I scream at the top of my lungs
“I HAVE THE LIGHT, ASSHOLE!”
while giving them the finger and crossing the street,
and those motherfuckers just have to wait
BECAUSE IT’S MY FUCKING TURN.
But the people who cross against the light
on a busy street have earned my wrath as well.
They mess everyone up. The cars can’t obey
their light without running them over,
so the cars end up in the middle of the street,
trying to turn, when pedestrians who do follow
the lights finally get the green.
Is it any wonder that things in
this country are so fucked up
when people can’t even figure out
how to follow traffic lights?
What could be simpler than red and green?
Even porn stars get what red and green mean.
Maybe porn stars should be running the country.
Maybe to be allowed to vote, or even just drive,
people should have to submit a porn movie
of themselves doing an S & M scene
where red meant stop and green meant go.
If knowing what they meant was the only way
to have any control over how much pain
you were feeling in your pussy, or
how tight your ball stretcher was,
you’d figure it out or be sorry.
And why are those bicycles on the sidewalks
when the sign clearly says
“No Bicycles on the Sidewalk”
in pictorial form, so not being able to read
isn’t even an excuse. What do they think
that big line across the picture of the bicycle means?
And if you can’t maneuver
one of those big double or quadruple strollers,
maybe you shouldn’t have had so many kids
or maybe you shouldn’t take them out of the house
all at once until they can walk.
And if you can’t work your wheelchair or walker,
hire a damn healthcare worker to push you.
I’m sure there’s lots of people who would like the job.
Or just don’t leave home, because
I sure as hell am not going to pick you up
off the sidewalk when you tip over.
I’m more likely to kick you all over and
stomp on your face and
wipe the dog shit from my shoes on you.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
One of my "alphabet" poems, which were initially inspired by Emmett Williams' "the ultimate poem"
I Could Change the World If Only I Could Get Up in the Morning
complaint
oozing
friend
noble inside radio alter caretaker
open possible fountain enlightenment oeuvre
crumble shrivel pandering feather terror
noble marred sadness face caution nightmare
open deleterious children never coffee chalk
crumble crime sympathetic worry stutter jail
shine marred nightmare
candy deleterious chalk
society crime jail
breakfast inside baggage alter caretaker
deluxe possible pessimism enlightenment oeuvre
crazy shrivel foreign feather terror
complaint somewhere
oozing deter
friend jammed
inside face alter arrow
possible never enlightenment cater
shrivel worry feather under
complaint
oozing
friend
noble inside radio alter caretaker
open possible fountain enlightenment oeuvre
crumble shrivel pandering feather terror
caution nightmare shine
coffee chalk candy
stutter jail society
radio outside
fountain doting
pandering jingle
complaint face
oozing never
friend worry
shine marred nightmare
candy deleterious chalk
society crime jail
hate inside baggage face complaint face caution
murder possible pessimism never oozing never coffee
gravel shrivel foreign worry friend worry stutter
complaint
oozing
friend
noble inside radio alter caretaker
open possible fountain enlightenment oeuvre
crumble shrivel pandering feather terror
noble marred sadness face caution nightmare
open deleterious children never coffee chalk
crumble crime sympathetic worry stutter jail
shine marred nightmare
candy deleterious chalk
society crime jail
breakfast inside baggage alter caretaker
deluxe possible pessimism enlightenment oeuvre
crazy shrivel foreign feather terror
complaint somewhere
oozing deter
friend jammed
inside face alter arrow
possible never enlightenment cater
shrivel worry feather under
complaint
oozing
friend
noble inside radio alter caretaker
open possible fountain enlightenment oeuvre
crumble shrivel pandering feather terror
caution nightmare shine
coffee chalk candy
stutter jail society
radio outside
fountain doting
pandering jingle
complaint face
oozing never
friend worry
shine marred nightmare
candy deleterious chalk
society crime jail
hate inside baggage face complaint face caution
murder possible pessimism never oozing never coffee
gravel shrivel foreign worry friend worry stutter
The poem from my book LSfP that I read 1-31-09 at Elbo Room just before The Stoneflys played
Boyfriend
I love my boyfriend
He’s the best
He gives me food
and he gives me sex
He works harder
than anyone I know
He always listens to me
even when I’m feeling low
I love my boyfriend
He’s A-Okay
He is really cool
and he likes to play
He has long hair
and an even longer nose
I like to fart on his face
when his eyes are closed
I hate my boyfriend
He’s such a dick
He tried to fuck my ass
with a carrot stick
I said do we have to play
salad-shooter again?
He went off by himself
to play with his little friend
I miss my boyfriend
Where’d he go?
He’s the only sado-pervert
I want to know
When he looks at me
with his evil-eye
I’m glad to have a guy
whose inner child isn’t shy
I love my boyfriend
I love my boyfriend
I love my boyfriend
He’s the best
He gives me food
and he gives me sex
He works harder
than anyone I know
He always listens to me
even when I’m feeling low
I love my boyfriend
He’s A-Okay
He is really cool
and he likes to play
He has long hair
and an even longer nose
I like to fart on his face
when his eyes are closed
I hate my boyfriend
He’s such a dick
He tried to fuck my ass
with a carrot stick
I said do we have to play
salad-shooter again?
He went off by himself
to play with his little friend
I miss my boyfriend
Where’d he go?
He’s the only sado-pervert
I want to know
When he looks at me
with his evil-eye
I’m glad to have a guy
whose inner child isn’t shy
I love my boyfriend
I love my boyfriend
The poem from my book Love Songs from Psychopaths that I read at Elbo Room 1-25-09 just before Overman played
Confession of Penis Envy
More than anything else
I would like to be
a gentleman and a scholar,
but failing that,
as I know I must,
I would like to have a brain
with large, long, glowing tentacles
reaching out
to conquer the world.
This is my most evil fantasy.
But mine it is,
and I shall not deny it.
I would like to be a man,
no, much better than a man,
better than an Ubermensch,
better than Scylla and Charybdis
all wrapped up in one.
I would touch and enter and feel
everything.
I would be in control.
I would kiss you.
And run my tentacles through your hair.
More than anything else
I would like to be
a gentleman and a scholar,
but failing that,
as I know I must,
I would like to have a brain
with large, long, glowing tentacles
reaching out
to conquer the world.
This is my most evil fantasy.
But mine it is,
and I shall not deny it.
I would like to be a man,
no, much better than a man,
better than an Ubermensch,
better than Scylla and Charybdis
all wrapped up in one.
I would touch and enter and feel
everything.
I would be in control.
I would kiss you.
And run my tentacles through your hair.
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