20 October 2012

Foreign Grown City Boyl
by Moctezuma Johnson


didn't mean to swell your clit
I'm sorry, I got distracted by Aunt Charlie's image
a Free Market of Enterprising Women
I am too much murmur, too much whisper
compensate by giving out
chunks of cock
like taquitos
chunks of splooge
like cantaloupe balls
to Korean girls who can spell but not pronounce my name

I'm the black death on the sidewalk
outside the old brothels with red velvet couches
which have only a few girls
not like the rows and rows of bargirls on walking street
which has a vibrating dildo of a clientele
all of whom
contain the word "cunt"
but I am Todd + Lucy = 69 Foreva
and When God Shoots Out Jizz
Pretend You're A Snake Charmer
And Wiggle Your Way
To Heaven One Load
At A Time

the old Green Jade Buddha
across from the diamond shops
really soothes my savage beast
really pulls the pulp from my orange
really twists my balls into animal balloons
of incurable apathy
because unlocked they leave the window
especially Sundays
and Friday night
is my Sunday morning
this is when Lakshmi moves upon me

licks my hairy anus
bounces her bulbous mountain titties
against my tongue
and prays i never pray
but i have already spit this:
Make Me the Hardest to Get Out
Jizz Stain in the World

in the Kali of counter-culteralism
I am King Shava working in a cubicle with a headset on
and not enough foreskin
I am David with an extra gonad
I am Ghandi with anorexia
I am bin Laden the investment banker working on the 110th floor of the World Trade
I am Jesus saying, "Fuck this shit. I won't hang on any motherfucker's cross again."

and the world simmers and sautes for all eternity
slowly nothing because of me
like browning garlic
i’m getting rid of your chlamydia
which wafts through the car
as I pound that smelly pussy
senseless


------
Now that's a fucking poem! A re-work of “Home Grown Country Girl” part of Blank Cake by Misti Rainwater-Lites, published by Coatlism Press.

19 October 2012

Having a Coffee in a Coffee Shop in Seoul

Although I don't like typing on this iPad
I have to tell you
That I'm feeling better
thrashing through the heavy bush
Laughing at the monkeys
Pissing on them
Telling them how funny they are

Drinking is killing me.
Here I am hungover again
Nostalgic for New Jersey
The old life

When my pupils were tied in neat bows
When my neurons were pendulums
When my feet were shooting stars
I ruled the world
then I unhooked from the galactic plug

Where is Derek Jeter
Where is Steve Jobs
Where am I?

Students are studying for their midterms in this cafe
I smoke, and type
This with two awkward fingers
As this technology kills the language

Getting Bumped

These morons around make me want to take my rightful place
In the mafia
Turn a good man bad
And break their
Necks
Leave them well-dressed and dead
On the uneven pavement

11 October 2012

05 October 2012

wash it from her cleavage

it wasn’t the ocre velvet,
how that blouse made of
skin-tones, even in dust, showed
her huge bust Or how,
fed and juicy, half-stuffed,
still she was a beauty. Not those
words the lover belted her with
like cock-slapping barrage. She
knew there would always be
another, and if anyone
could get what she wants
she knows she is the one--with 
those two big zeppelins 
popping out. If she survived 
the war in her head 
she knows she can survive 
anything from this box 
of syrup.
Sure, the scent of his juice
haunted, she could
not wash it from her cleavage. 
But she’ll be damned if
she let the what-have-beens
braid into her.

02 October 2012

women suck

do you wanna have dinner?
i want an iPad?
so no to dinner?

it is hurting my belly. don’t put it in me
blah blah, unsupportive whore bag,
you came two times, don’t you think you can at least finish me

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