Last Saturday, after calling in sick to work, I hung out with a buddy whom I haven't really seen in a number of months. He came to a friend's birthday party last month, but I was all over the place socially, so it's really been while since we've actually, y'know, hung out. But on Saturday, while we were trying to hide the fact that we smoke from the resident 3 year old, he told me it was time to resurrect American Mir. "If for no other reason than to link to my blog," he added, glancing over his shoulder back at the house.
I have now done both, and may proceed to usher into the blackness of cybersapce a poem I wrote on the 24th of January at 3.12pm (wow. That's in the afternoon. Weird.). And, no surprise to some of you, it's about sex. And food.
Untitled for Good Reason
His taste in women was a relish
of the obscure, obscene, lean fat-free and
ofttimes hellish. Hot pepper face slaps,
skin burning love taps, raising oozy welts
beneath around her pelt, her mouth,
a braille warning to the next louse.
His taste in women, like women, drifted
to the pickle sifted backward, adhered
to the rear with a lifted touch of ass.
Though both, whether danglers and funnels,
fun holes and danger, together in one lay,
or together through ten, pushed up his crave
and last drop of mayonnaise.
Yet his boy toss leaves behind joy loss,
a knee to chest self-hug, imitating self-love
like a mug of soy sauce is coffee.
Naughty.
In the office, day life orifice, he let slip
the tale of his dip in the hot dog bin
at market where, seeking for dark meat,
he found only all beef, but licked his public lip
for thoughts of spilled ketchup.
But not mustard.
That's for retards and perverts.