MISFIT DOC: After Reading Multiple Reviews Of Pop Corpse

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


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.

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