This is Mitch Sisskind's Typepad Profile.
Join Typepad and start following Mitch Sisskind's activity
Join Now!
Already a member? Sign In
Mitch Sisskind
Recent Activity
Of a whorehouse in Odessa Isaac Babel wrote That sometimes groans of pleasure lifted The whole building six inches off the ground. So too it was at the Commonwealth Hotel On the corner of Pine Grove and Diversey Where as kids we caused such commotion In the coffee shop that once a bookmaker Leaned from a phone booth and exclaimed, ‘This is a place of business!’ We laughed And mocked him but in that same hour As the hotel began to levitate we sought His explanation – he was known as Mister Zah – and he described fucking As best he could but it was still a mystery. Continue reading
Posted 7 days ago at The Best American Poetry
Everything about this album cover was so exquisitely congruent with the historical moment! I recall seeing it for the first time: the slush, the girl, her boots, and most especially the VW van. Bob as a specific identity in the picture was almost irrelevant. It could have been anybody (except me.) But the way he's looking down...the bulge...his look of pleasant surprise. Yes, he's getting a boner, or already has one. As well he might! Keep it up, Bob! "One more cup of coffee before I go....." Continue reading
Posted Oct 13, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
Your indifference to it all, Decades-long obliviousness To everything around here: Dust motes, the microwave -- What thought have you given To them? Very little, or none. Be not surprised therefore When a picture stays blithely In its frame as your teeth Fall out and the stoical toilet Gives not a shit on that fatal Morning or blazing afternoon That Achilles predicts for us In Book XVI of Homer’s Iliad. Continue reading
Posted Oct 2, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
Mitch the sad old poet stared into the void. He had read in Genesis 2:18 that "it was not good for the man to be alone" but the man was alone. What then was the use of it all? He thought of Billie Jean King. An accomplished woman but neither she nor any of her ilk held the slightest interest for Mitch. None -- and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Then Rachel suddenly appeared. She was a real shot in the arm. Here's a picture of a jackass with a hot young woman. The jackass is "on cloud nine." Here's a picture of Mitch and Rachel. Rachel had done some drawings over the years. Many of them were sexual in a peculiar way. Two of Mitch's favorite exclamations were "fuckbirds" and "fuck a duck." Rachel adapted these as a drawing of ducks having sexual intercourse. Rachel started doing drawings of Mitch with a penis for his nose. When Mitch was watching the world cup soccer game Rachel did a drawing that continued the nose/penis idea. Mitch was rooting for Paraguay which she misspelled in the drawing. Rachel had a fondness for word play. In another nose/penis drawing she referred to post-nasal dick. ​Fascinated and energized by Rachel, Mitch started a sort of beatnik biker look. He told Rachel they might have to live under a bridge and without batting an eyelash she said, "Let's live under a bridge then." ​ Mitch showed Rachel a picture of a rabbi with a possum which she found very inspiring. Possums started appearing in the drawings as a sexual symbol. Also Jewish stuff, ​The possum became a regular character in drawings whose meaning could be obscure. But nothing lasts forever: "Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream." Ha, ha hee, full well is me, For I am now at liberty. -- Sir Thomas Wyatt, the elder Continue reading
Posted Jul 5, 2016 at The Best American Poetry
"I grew up very much alone, and as far back as I recall I was frightened of anything sexual." It's a great opening sentence for a novel, don't you think? It's a lot better than "Call me Ishmael." It just makes you want to keep reading, which is the purpose of a good first sentence. We sense that change took place, or even transformation. The narrator is no longer alone, and ain't "frightened of anything sexual" no more. How did that happen? It's the opening sentence of Georges Bataille's short novel L'histoire de l'oeil. In English, The Story of the Eye. You can read a beautiful English translation using this link. But maybe do that later. It will take less time to watch the video below: Whoops. Pay no attention to that photograph. I can't figure out how to delete it. Here's the video: If literature stays away from evil, it rapidly becomes boring." Literature has to deal with anguish, and anguish is based on something that is going the wrong way, something that will turn into evil, When you make the reader face that the characters he cares about will have an evil ending, the result is a tension that makes literature non-boring." Writing is the opposite of working You can't really understand what literature means if you don't approach it from a child's perspective. It's very important to recognize the infantile character of eroticism in general.... To feel eroticism is to be fascinated like a child who wants to take part in a forbidden game. A man fascinated by eroticism is like a child. "i think it's important for us to confront the danger that is literature. Literature makes it possible for us to percieve the worst, and to learn how to confront it. A man who plays the game finds in the game the force to overcome it. The Donkey My buff-armed love makes me talk to his blue-eyed mother. She interrupts with screams: “You should listen to him!” My kissy love rapes me every month Then washes under warm water, milky tear drops glide over red nipple. Immediately, I forgive him. He hugs me for a proper good-bye. My skull shrinks, saliva drips. I love him. I am a donkey. Heartbeat I am coming to you High-heels on Lip hair removed Thrilled when I saw you in my living room at the wine bar Talking to my husband Legs shaved Nails manicured Pussy trimmed Dripped when I felt in my busy office on my messy desk your tasty mouth Tongue brushed Highlights done Perfume sprayed Raged when I learned in your room on the third shelf about your wife Tripped when I heard they in Amsterdam by cornflower fields found your body Continue reading
Posted Dec 21, 2015 at The Best American Poetry
Sixth grade, a new kid came, Fat kid, terrible at sports, But a genius, played the violin, And when we got math workbooks On the first day of sixth grade He finished the workbook that night, Was supposed to take a year! So smart was he that the teachers Hated him, put the kid in front Of the class and said, ‘Do you believe In God or are you too smart to believe In God?’ The kid said he didn’t know At first but finally said he did believe In God, because he had to. Once at lunch he said the name Jascha Heifetz and we all laughed At the name and wanted him To say it again but he wouldn’t Say it because he didn’t like us Laughing at the name Jascha Heifetz That was like somebody sneezing. Then one day at a movie theater We were buying popcorn and there Was a cardboard cutout of a guy With a guitar and the kid said to me, ‘It’s Elvis Presley’ and I said, ‘Who?’ He said, ‘It’s Elvis Presley, he was on ‘The Ed Sullivan Show last Sunday.’ How strange, how unlikely it now Seems, my introduction to Elvis Presley. But we shared a destiny, the kid and I -- So years later, when I fell in love with His wife, I was all shook up: my hands Were shaky, my knees were weak, I couldn’t stand on my own two feet. Continue reading
Posted Mar 5, 2015 at The Best American Poetry
They live retired, and then they doze away their times in drowsinesses and brownstudies. -- Johnson’s Dictionary She was the love of my lie, The lie of my love. Oh God, I can’t think straight anymore. She was the love of my life! Convoluted or plum contradictory Are a lion’s feelings when it confronts A hippopotamus. Tell me about it! Oh God, I can’t think straight anymore. Lies, love, laughter, lucubration, Laceration, lasciviousness, lachrimosity -- Is that a word? I got news for you, pal, It is now! I can’t think straight anymore. Oh God, I can’t think straight anymore. She was the hippopotamus of my love, I was the lion in her eyes. She laughed So hard I thought she would bust a gut! Continue reading
Posted Feb 23, 2015 at The Best American Poetry
How else to keep alive the spirit Of sans souci, the flame of youth, But with sexual intercourse? That sphere of glowing delight To which, once I acceded to it, The luminous channel has never Closed to me – as all my work Is wrought there, charity obliges That I advertise its pleasures and Fairly attribute the curious vitality Derived there that each night Invents names and faces for me As if my heart were still a boy’s And my pen were the prick of one. Continue reading
Posted Feb 18, 2015 at The Best American Poetry
How ironic that, as intellectuals and aesthetes, those of us who live by words may underestimate the power of the words we speak or write. Just the other day I was in pleasant conversation with a talented versifier when he happened to mention the name "Lilith." Although he was referring to the radical feminist magazine that may or may not still exist, there is no doubt that the real Lilith still exists just as she has since the time of Adam. And to utter her name without quickly pretending to spit twice over one's right shoulder is asking for serious trouble. Lilith (spit, spit!) as some of you may know, was Adam's first wife. When she affronted the Creator by insisting on "unorthodox" relations with her husband, she was banished from Eden and spent the next 500 years at the bottom of the ocean. Finally she surfaced, determined to wreak as much havoc as possible in human domestic affairs. When Lilith hears a man mention her name, she surmises (quite correctly!) that a secret wish for her appearance exists in the speaker. Of course, as with any repressed wish, the poor fool may not be aware of his own desire. That's why Lilith always appears in disguise. The new temp at the office, the Fedex delivery girl, the grad student in need of help with her thesis -- any or all of these may be Lilith. But those potential incarnations are relatively easy to resist. Lilith is much more dangerous when she manifests as a man's own wife! If a woman appears and sounds like his wife, a man -- and especially a poet, naive by nature -- may assume the woman is his wife indeed: "If it looks like a duck..." etc. He may also forget that he spoke the forbidden name that morning in Starbucks. Well, he's in for a surprise -- and the worst part is, Lilith is dangerously addictive. Not only is she erotically exciting but she's also an excellent conversationalist. There are two solutions for this problem, both recommended by the ancient sages of the Talmud. First, don't speak the name in the first place! Just refer to the Bad Girl and any educated person will know who you're talking about. Second, create a secret code with your wife that only the two of you know -- an arbitrary phrase like "plate of shrimp" from the film Repo Man. If you sense anything unusual in your conjugal affairs, demand the password. If it's not forthcoming, fill a bucket with water and pour it on the demon woman. Lilith has hated water ever since her five hundred years in the ocean. The images above are just two of Lilith's infintely various disguises. On top, of course, is Veronica from Archie Comics; below is a seemingly innocous dental hygenist. Poets! Choose Betty, not Veronica -- and floss daily! Continue reading
Posted Dec 5, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
Where were you when televisions Multiplied in American homes And pastel-colored cars had fins On which at least once a boy Chasing a ball stabbed himself and the fins, like kings, died out? I lived when Eisenhower’s golfing And mumbled press conferences Affronted the intelligentsia whose Worship of Stevenson blossomed Into the miracle of Jack Kennedy’s Televised White House cello recitals. In the doghouse was an expression Extremely common in those days. You might hear a man who forgot The anniversary of his marriage Forty years ago refer to himself As in the doghouse, for example. People said, On the warpath. They said, You’re cooking with gas. They said, Fish out of water -- Jump on the bandwagon – A fly in The ointment – The jury is still out -- He’s always blowing his own horn -- Or how about this? Eke lullaby, My loving boy, thy lusts relent -- Four hundred and fifty years ago A man wrote that poem to his penis. Can you imagine it happening today? I can. I’m a board certified urologist. Continue reading
Posted Oct 7, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
That day in 1965 as Julie Christie Seduced the pool cleaning man I sequestered myself behind A cactus plant for the duration. It was quickly done. Palm Springs! This was before the traffic got So horrible and lawn sprinklers Rendered the naturally dry Desert air oppressively humid. Later Julie and I shared laughs Over cocktails rehashing her Recent film “Doctor Chicago” As we hilariously re-Christied it. But wait. Do I wake or sleep? Continue reading
Posted Aug 11, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
No telling what time it was As he woke in darkness with The sleeping cat’s warmth, A gift from God, on the back Of his neck and, weeping, He willed himself to perfect Stillness lest the cat leave. But wait. Here was a thought, Here was another possibility: He was dead and, willfulness Be damned, could no more Stir himself than trisect an angle! Yes, that might be it -- And this was paradise! Continue reading
Posted Jun 23, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
A poem is like a golf ball because A poem’s meaning derives from The multifarious denotations And connotations of words Compressed within the poem As in a golf ball tightly packed Rubber bands are compressed. A poem’s meaning is revealed By unraveling the poem’s figurative Rubber bands but let us be aware Of how this can discombobulate The poem’s energy compression mechanism. The good news is Not all poems work that way. Money is like a golf ball because Although one golf ball may cost More than another they are all The same size just as money can Come in various denominations But all American paper bills are Uniform in length and width. Also, people may have a golf ball In a pocket or a purse without Anyone knowing it or they may Actually not have a golf ball while Others believe they do have one. It’s the same way with money Because you just never know. Sex combines golf ball qualities Of both poems and money because Sex can be a compressed version Of an entire relationship just as Rubber bands are compressed In a golf ball or a poem’s meaning Is compressed in its words. Also, you can’t tell about people’s Sex lives by looking at people Just as without actually looking In someone’s pocket or purse You can’t tell whether they have A golf ball, or some money, Or much money, or no money. Death is like a golf ball because Just as a golf ball goes into a hole In the grass so most people go Into graves in cemeteries which Are like golf courses in their verdure And in the silence we are asked To maintain and also in the way Some golf balls smoothly and Easily descend into a hole while Others do not. Yet though death Is like a golf ball let us neither Weep nor grieve but take heart And look on the bright side Because life is like a golf ball too! Continue reading
Posted Apr 4, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
Man had a big house outside Iron Mountain, his wife hot at The swimming pool, laughing As Nasko Hooten introduced Himself: 'What kind of a name 'Is that?' But not in the slightest Was he pissed off. Light shone In her eyes, he saw the woman She would have been were she Duncan Oklahoma born and bred. Man had a truck they looked at For a while – Nasko Hooten said, ‘I’d put a winch on the front ‘Of it were that truck mine.’ Continue reading
Posted Mar 21, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
Perhaps Lydia Davis is best known as a prose writer, most recently of very short stories. But her work has also appeared in BAP anthologies, Lydia's new book of stories is called Can't and Won't. There's also a profile of Lydia in this week's New Yorker magazine. The link is below. One little problem (maybe.) To read the New Yorker online you have to be a subscriber. So if you're not a subscriber, you can subscribe. Or if you're not a subscriber, and you don't want to subscribe, there's a link to another article about Lydia. Maybe a better one. Or maybe not. But about Lydia. And free. Continue reading
Posted Mar 11, 2014 at The Best American Poetry
Yes, rated X! But stay with it because John Milton comes up at the end! (ed note: warning, this is a frank discussion. You may not want to watch/listen if you are in a public place.-- sdh) Continue reading
Posted Dec 20, 2013 at The Best American Poetry
Office holders and political people, Bush, Obama, Cheney, Old Man Bush, Michelle, Hilary, Bill, Condoleezza Rice, The living and dead, Nixon, Kennedy, Dwight Eisenhower, all had bedbugs But they neither saw nor suspected That bedbugs were biting them. At the Stanhope Hotel, at the Pierre, At the Mirage Hotel of Beverly Hills In the early morning silence bedbugs Awaken as heedless we slumber, As we bathe, as we have intercourse Bedbugs peer from their hiding places And we are oblivious of the bedbugs. A stunning woman of fashion On Fifth Avenue – for the bedbugs In her iPhone it is a simple matter Amid her chat and gab to ear-enter Her like some harebrained marketing Jingle and then deep within her The bedbugs pitch their palaces. Likewise the poor have bedbugs. Egalitarians, equal opportunity Enjoyers, true democrats are The bedbugs for whom not Solomon in all his glory enticed Like a homeless man asleep in A doorway or on a subway grate. What can be done about bedbugs? Go Google bedbug poisons or How to kill bedbugs or natural enemies Of bedbugs and you will find sprays, Ointments, and simple inexpensive Home remedies like dish soap that Annoy bedbugs but not to death. Much then can be done about bedbugs But (really) nothing can be done about Them. We slather ourselves with soap, We fumigate, we fuss and fulminate, We literally get down on our knees and Pray to God and in that same hour we Get bitten, we get dozens of bites. Still by all means let us spray and Slather, let us turn up the thermostats In our apartments because bedbugs Hate heat, let us leave no stone unturned And the end of all our slathering and Thermostating will be to know the Futility of slathering and of thermostats. Then let that knowing inspire all Humankind to a frenzied piling up Of mattresses in the world’s cities, Towns, and fields – pillows, bedclothes Piled high and burned by huge mobs Fed up with bedbugs, joyful at mattresses Burning if the bedbugs are also burning. Let a crazed energy as in the poet’s Vision of how Pandemonium was built Grip all humanity and from that energy Let bitter knowledge emerge that burning Mattresses, pillows, and bedclothes is not Enough for complete and total bedbug Extermination because everything must burn! Then onto the flaming mattresses let gold Jewelry be flung, MacBooks, Big Bird t-shirts, Watches and handbags, ATM cards, bras, You name it, let even hundred dollar Bills eagerly be flung lest bedbug eggs Adhere to the hundred dollar bills To say nothing of the twenties or tens. Shrieking women tearing off their blouses, Men – husbands, sons, lovers – flinging Accoutrements of masculinity such as Barn coats, beer cans, cowboy boots, Baseball mitts and football jerseys Into the flames to deny a refuge To even one goddamned bedbug! Yet as hand in hand the mobs dance Naked around the fires in a hurly-burly Unprecedented historically by pyramids Or potlatches... Continue reading
Posted Nov 25, 2013 at The Best American Poetry
Some say your name Is your destiny as with Green Bay’s Bart Starr Who became the star qb Of the Lombardi teams Or Dick Butkus who cussed And butted his way To football immortality. Joe Montana was another Great qb whose name conjured Images of Old West gunslingers Or 19th century riverboat gamblers And that day in the park when I first came across his name In the Tribune I knew Joe Montana Would be in the Hall of Fame. But what about Jim Brown? Possibly the top ball carrier Of all time who (oddly?) Played for the Cleveland Browns Yet it’s hard to come up With a blander, less dashing, More forgettable or invisible Name than Jim Brown. Earl Scheib too bore the burden Of a genuinely zhlubby name Yet he built a multi-million dollar Automobile painting and collision Repair company with locations Around the world for which Scheib Even made the paint though it All did go to hell eventually. My own name was Donald G. Bruce But only for one day until my black Market adoption took place and This present appellation was conferred On me but now as shadows lengthen On the greensward and evening Draws nigh I shall henceforth and Forever be known as Duke Rhino! Continue reading
Posted Oct 15, 2013 at The Best American Poetry
Rachel and I are creating a series of videos exploring varieties of human sexual experience. Following Dante's example, we will begin with hell and wind up with paradise. We start with the problems and conclude with the big payoff! And make no mistake: anyone can get there! Sexuality is a labyrinth, not a maze.You just have to keep going. And as you'll see, while Henry David Thoreau is a poor sexual role model, Ralph Waldo Emerson is an inspiring intellectual aphrodisiac! We apologize for the annoying background noise in these videos. Sounds like chickens or mice yet it was completely quiet in the room. We will try to do better! Continue reading
Posted Oct 5, 2013 at The Best American Poetry
First, I salute David for this beautiful essay. There is no doubt that he could have been a great sportswriter, and as this piece shows, it's not too late either. I have been inspired to offer a few thoughts. First, as the editors of the NY Times have themselves acknowledged, a weakness of the paper has always been the failure to develop a really good sports section. Red Smith was certainly the best columnist they ever had, but as I think John Stuart Mill once said in another connection (or perhaps it was said about John Stuart Mill) "his eminence reveals the flatness of the surrounding terrain." Apparently there is some basic contradiction between the unique identity of the NY Times and the sports section of a newspaper. It's hard to imagine writers like Jim Murray, Jimmy Cannon, or David Condon publishing in the New York Times. That's life. A.J. Liebling was one of those writers I wanted to like and the topics he wrote about seemed interesting, but I was completely disappointed in him. Whether he was writing about boxing, eating, or (especially) the city of Chicago, I sensed that in those days New Yorker writers must have been paid by the word. Just terrible. But he's still vastly better than Joseph Mitchell, another New Yorker writer whom I wanted to like. Joseph Mitchell is really the worst. Onward. I am not free to disclose my sources, but the legendary collapse of the Chicago Cubs in 1969, which allowed the Mets to win the pennant, was caused in large part by a feud between Cubs manager Leo Durocher and Cubs third baseman Ron Santo -- both of them megalomaniacs. There were eleven games left in the season and I believe the Cubs only had to win one of them in order to get the pennant, but the Cubs lost them all. Something like that. Durocher's stepson was in my class when I was a seventh grade gym teacher that Fall, and he was really a great kid. It was certainly a difficult situation for him. We never spoke about what was happening during "the collapse." Marciano, LaMotta, Graziano, Basilio, Joey Giardello, those guys were like Roman legionaries. Basilio and Giardello were boxers to some extent but the others were brawlers like gladiators with short swords. Marciano had wanted to be a baseball player more than a boxer. His advantage was that he loved to train. Heavyweights in that era weighed about 185 pounds, which was Marciano's weight. This continued up through Floyd Patterson's reign. Against Sonny Liston and the 220 pound men who followed him, Marciano would have definitely lost. A big heart can take you only so far. Lots of matches from the postwar era and before can be seen on YouTube. Viewing them can only increase one's admiration for men like Mickey Walker, Archie Moore, Harry Greb, Benny Leonard, and many more. And no one knows more about the history of boxing than Mike Tyson. What a... Continue reading
Posted Jun 24, 2013 at The Best American Poetry
Dog paraphernalia such as a treadmill Out by the side of the road -- that will Attract the attention of Citizen Joe And LE will not be far behind. Nasko Hooten was in the middle of A Cococlops keep that time When he, Nasko, was matched into Molesworth in 2004 in Oklahoma. Citizen Joe drove by and Joe called LE on his cell phone and the next thing You know Nasko was talking to the Female officer just chatting peacefully And then the male officer horned in! He horned in on Nasko Hooten and The female officer chatting peacefully And Nasko cold cocked the son of a bitch! You'd have done the same thing And so would I have! Nasko Hooten And the female officer chatting peacefully And the male officer horned in! Six months Nasko got but he got out After three and I said to him 'Tell me 'What it was like in there' and he said 'Like Barnum and Bailey every day!' Laughing that big laugh of his he said 'It was like Barnum and Bailey every day 'In there! That's exactly what it was like. 'It was like Barnum and Bailey every day!' I asked him what else it was like and He laughed that big laugh of his and said 'Well you don't want to be an old guy 'In there! No you don't to be an old guy!' Aw haw haw! Aw haw haw haw haw! He cold cocked the son of a bitch! It was like Barnum and Bailey in there! You don't want to be an old guy in there! Continue reading
Posted Jun 17, 2013 at The Best American Poetry
Matthew Johnson the founder of Fat Possum records brought a group of North Mississippi blues musicians to the world's attention in the early 1990s. Almost all dead now. One most powerful was Junior Kimbrough, whose work Matthew Johnson described as "the beginning and the end of music." Yes, "the beginning and the end" and it's interesting to see very accomplished musicians -- or, for that matter, plumbers, athletes, bartenders, rabbis, airplane pilots, shoe salesmen -- return to the most basic elements of their craft. Doing it with joy and no affectation is surely a mark of greatness. Hillary Hahn is heap big young violinist. Can play just about anything And here she does "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star"... Yardbird Parker is supposed to have been drawn to this kind of performance, sometimes playing Three Blind Mice on a toy saxophone. But Yardbird Parker might have been mocking his audience a little bit there too fuckin' with 'em a little bit gettin' over on 'em a little bit as members of the fishy tribe deserve. Continue reading
Posted Jun 12, 2013 at The Best American Poetry
Maybe I'm the only person who's unfamiliar with Mitoslav Tichy (1926-2011) and his beautifully subversive photographs, but I just discovered him last week. Tichy was trained as a painter of Socialist Realism in communist Czechoslovakia. He dropped out of the academy, however, and began his work as a photograper. He built his own camera out of wood and cardboard, in line with his belief that he should have the "worst possible camera." Tichy developed his own pictures -- only one print of each -- and mounted many of them on children's construction paper. The women and girls in his town of Kyjov were his unknowing subjects. Especially under the Communists, this was considered threatening and at first Tichy was often arrested. And the Commies were right. He was a threat to those gray aparatchiks, to the extent that any artist can threaten such beings. Miroslav Tichy's website is here: Tichy's photographs eloquently speak for themselves. They've been correctly described as expressions of "poetic imperfection." I've spent hours looking at them, and the time has been well-wasted. Here are some examples. You can find many more. As you might expect, in recent years his work has been presented in galleries around the world. Continue reading
Posted Jun 10, 2013 at The Best American Poetry
Half-a-whores have no set fee But simply accept such gifts as Are forthcoming whether clothes, Shoes, purses, spa days, Land Rovers, Island getaways, pieds-a-terre, Wine tastings, red carpet events, Or, yes, breast enhancement surgery. But listen up, you half-a-whores, Breast enhancement surgery is never An urgent need of yours but is only Your wish to be eye-candy in public For your sugar daddy or daddies and In the bedroom to be youthfully and Totally sexual for him or them. Continue reading
Posted Jun 3, 2013 at The Best American Poetry
The cheapest motel in Barstow, There I received my education, Groaning air conditioner No match for faked orgasms Unavoidable through walls Nor could even the TV set prevail Over whores’ continual bogus Jollifications day and night. So never fake an orgasm, girls, That was the lesson I took away. Do I look older than twenty-four? It's because my soul is old. What I've learned from fucking Needs more than one lifetime But I hate any God bullshit, I hate any whore with the heart Of gold bullshit, I love how laptops And cell phones have made pimps Obsolete, I like the word cunt better Than pussy and I love the word slut. Giving pleasure to women is what Men want but most don't know They want it, the dumb fucks, How lame is that? Dorks! Hello? Well, here is the key to the mint: Class with a touch of wicked sleaze. A hundred and nine men I've fucked This year and the biggest prick was Ten inches long, seven around, And the smallest was zero point five. Continue reading
Posted May 20, 2013 at The Best American Poetry