[Notebook] from June 2005, “Follicle Sore”
I pluck you like a mutant chest hair not like a railroad ditch rose.
I want to purge my body of this bitter decay;
Barnacles on a sunken hull like grout in my bachelor shower stall.
Unclean as an ancient sinner.
Hedonistic orgies romping in muddy pastures.
Religion is the horseshit psychoactive mushrooms flourish in.
I taste urine under my unpedicured nails.
If we should kiss, oh how intimate an act.
How is such a basic biological exchange not as passionate as oral sex?
I’ve tasted your piss too while nuzzling in your pubes.
An aroma of lust like a potpourri sensed toilet bowl.
Anything can be erotic…
So why not you?
Stimulation seducing the mind, a hormone head rush.
But what of you and I?
A maggot in a fresh corpse like spite in a dead love.
What’s left of us to feast on?
Arguing in circles of karmic rebirth.
A perpetual universe of habitual narcissism.
If we weren’t so mesmerized by our own machismo;
Wouldn’t it all shrivel up like an aging penis?
Now what could be anymore romantic;
Than black heart bleeding through a follicle sore?
When ditch roses prick my innocent foreskin.
Suck beauty out of the vacuum of my urethra.
Our breaths without rhythm, a clamoring cadence.
With puckered lips, I pinch shut a vicious quip.
Toxic as a chemical factory, my emotions full of poison.
I scratch you like an infectious rash not like a winning lottery ticket.
Bacteria breeds…
So why not us?
A mantis devours her lover…
So why not you?
