Pop corpse—it’s Heterosexual Marine Corps
With its push for mermaid’s own hole that horsy stud waters.
Why the journey to genital—we’ve gone and gone
Into that night, nightmare naturalizing days. Its futurity lands right back in past chains.
Yes we get a blooper transgendering bodies is rad: we get a nod to Queer
But it’s apparently not worth a journey, a way of life, a day by day
Or not such that girl/boy/fuck networks fray, lose a bubble or five of airtime.
Because it takes a snatch for cock to rock, what the reviewers at-least use to define
Female pleasure. How do we even know that’s the only
Touch tends tidal wave, renders organism sweetest rippling chasm
Thrumming consciousness to kingdom comes. Like why can’t orgasm bloom with other curves
Of bodies’ curvatures. I sling Gay seajunk, tsetse on the fly, impotent spunk, against screens of this
Vision.
Pop here seems to have no corpse, only a kingdom endlessly courts
Curtailing life from living lives
Discipline hasn’t perma catechized.
I hear my critics hiss all I want to do is keep up fucking girl authors, fuck anyone else’s emphasis.
To my critics I state cut off my jumping juicing lump, then defend corporal punishment.
There is pleasure in the language of circumference. Too, there is enjoyment in
These words at the extreme center, the whirling girling suction
Let’s loose Heterosexuality’s seduction.
I love the chewy words, the syllables like pink plastic umbrellas riding waves as deftly as dolphins.
The story bores me but the words engross like pig-tail barrettes plunked into a woodydrift bonfire where they
Melt, bubble and sink, barbed lures all
Swizzle, bubblegum Joycean chisel! I adore these lines of Girl Joyce, cheer morphemes troping
Voice, just wish we didn’t hear it for the Boy Prince with his long-schlong
Nozzle. I’d rather coddle roe, then egg the boy on to oblivion
Than polish his nob to jade, jet, but it’s fascist of me to deny giving hard-ons head!
Fascism is best left to the king of the sea. Every time I go to the beach and take a dive
It’s a wonder I come out alive. When I stand on the shoreline I have to squeeze and
Squeeze all that Poseidon jizz
Just keeps on dripping, but my shorts are never shredded; the semen seamlessly caulks
My swim-trunks, treasure trunk for my fabulously flaccid, ultra-relaxed junk! Hot cahoots can he
Come, like rain waters not the creamy
Ream of penetration.
My brain waves on its stem. Ink spills and misses every link.
Read me a mirror. Mirror me and see Miranda. Remind
Me of the rightness of Miranda Rights. Shut me the fuck up and jerk my
Mouthhole open for some cocklegobble. Obviously, I am in
Love with this horsy sea lair, whose every hairy hair
Nails scales to bitchin’ tail, have swallowed, sated, on Lara’s words, viscera, proved their vision ain’t
Dated no matter that I sniff stank, freighter I wish sunk, or floated belly-up but not like the trash-patch
Bigger than Texas capping, giving the clap, to sweet Pacific. I want this continent to go
Away way more than Atlantis, so light it leaps up, deep-dives,
Sounds its sweet extinction. But-but-but, it’s totally here, so unless I kill really real, I’m refusing to
Land, let reality fill my visage, vector the vessel I charter. But what’s wrong with knocking rocks off this shipping-
Lane! Am I too dumb for not doting on docked. Isn’t it rad to be cock harder than wrecking rock! Couldn’t I sink
Us to the springiest brink, put us in the dreamiest pink, where no atom is pre-fab and feeling good is the connection
Cracks all matter together, where fuck is always perfect not choking suck swells, swells fucking sentience up.
That the mermaids shit out their mouths is
Delicious. But why can’t XXX seek an anus or finpit. Vaginal sex feels so
Vanilla. It sure as shit ain’t the only hole fulfills the requisite for fucking. And what about the face-fuck!
To this lair’s credit—polishing bones is one thing, but creaming them in
Crap patinas quite another. Yummers!
I need to read more than the excerpts. It’s mean of me to blow up my
Reaction. The whole could prove my harrumph
Makes more sense as heir apparent! And maybe snatch should never be understood as noun. Maybe XXX
Is go-go-go for verb, agency not broke. Ugh, XXX pisses me off and gives me a good fisting—triple crossing
Does else than Heterosexual works; we’re not in the realms of legs, chromosomes, eggs. We’re conked out
In a homophone that almost but doesn’t clone the boned babe we all spectrally know.
This song’s seismic seed has been looking, with all its skirl, like critique, exile from
PC’s vision, which is questionable—though I’d be tickled to learn I apprehend its misprision.
Adam Strauss lives in Fort Lauderdale, FL. He has one full-length collection of poetry out: For Days (BlazeVox).Too, poems of his appear in the anthologies The Arcadia Project: North American Postmodern Pastoral (Ahsahta), and Devouring the Green (Jaded Ibis), as well as numerous literary journals, including the Colorado Review, Delirious Hem, Fence, Interim, Verse, Witness and Word For/Word.