DIRTY VERSE

Two Of A Kind

My lover and I were never bland in the summer of 1920,

and though all I had done was hold her hand, my plans for more were plenty.

We were out for a stroll at her uncle Nick's, in the country in mid-July;

the heat was enough to have broken bricks, but it bothered not her nor I.

On the path: a place of relief in pine, a luxurious, large two-seater,

one half for women, one half mine, partitioned to be discreeter.

With our privacy assured, we went with restraint to adjacent rooms,

where the big blue flies in abundance lent the atmosphere its tunes.

Now here I confess a failing, both in character and demeanor,

reported so that prevailing views may profit and be cleaner.

Desiring to see my loved one's bum, I ventured a glance below,

and with upheld breath and sealed gum, looked left at what I'd know.

What I saw, below the board, in that most unholy place,

was what I have ever since adored— her curious, smiling face.

Professional Wrestling

The Pope will engage the devil today

in what looks to be an exhausting future.

In their previous six thousand and twelve encounters

each of them claims the same number of wins,

exactly six thousand and twelve, the age as our universe.

The devil is dressed in his classic red with a little hole to escape the tail.

The horns on his head look extremely sharp.

The Pope will combat these horns with a skull as thick

and hard as a Presbyterian's, capped with a little beanie to butt.

It’s not a fez. I forget the word. He’s wearing a robe

so loose and ambitious the hint of a man is minimal. A miter?

They're at it! The devil is under his robe!

The Pope has a look of acute surprise!

He's reaching under his skirts with a vengeance!

It seems like he has the devil down!

He may have that bastard by the neck!

They're all balled up in a flapping roll!

The Pope is looking quite satisfied!

Well, both sides are claiming victory again.

Pome

i hope yr reeding this u prcks

& twats who nvr punctuate

& spel rong

& use ampersands

& pss me off

like a bug on a rock

i want u 2 c

it dznt make n e cents

& quit

Religiously Rejected

I was a prawn in the game of life

and the Jewish girl wouldn’t have me.

I built myself up with a ton of beef

and fell in love with a skinny Hindu: fat chance.

A red herring hoping to feel Mary,

I was a fish out of water with Catholics.

As Canadian bacon I faced the Near East

and incurred a dark, Mohammedan strike-out.

With tonsure and rat tail, censor and incense,

I was still not spicy enough for the beautiful Buddhist.

Leaning toward aphorisms and Chinese cooking,

I win job in Confucianist restaurant, but not waitress.

Promising a balanced, low-cal diet with plenty of exercise,

I pursued a woman of Science: she preferred machines.

Urinary Nationalism

Girls adopt the posture that they pee the most correctly

sitting on their targets, while we boys, we pee erectly.

And though we feel superior in aim, to stand supremely,

girls no doubt believe themselves to pee the more serenely.

So a need for separate toilets has been evident for years,

on grounds that anyone with sense would rather pee with peers.

And thus do modern lavatories meet our expectations:

we pee with pride and dignity as friendly, separate nations.

Guests

8 great strangers came to dinner,

every one over 200 pounds,

man and woman they weighed in

with 8 great appetites for turkey,

stuffing, broccoli,

you name it, they ate it,

gravy, potatoes, 8 helpings

doubled, tripled (they had more),

until 8-great, they ate desert,

laying into finite pies of mincemeat,

8 great meat-grinders

with cast-aluminum, wide eyes

and gullets, oh, they cranked it in!

holy molar! I sat back

and listened to the coffee slurped,

as down it went in a sugared river

into subterranean stomachs

already awash with wine I bought,

oh! holy gut-wash! 8 sinks!

and after that they all had brandy:

glug, glug, away the pain,

down the plug-hole, all of it,

my amber drink in hollow legs,

and finally, when they were all sprawled

over sofas, all squashed,

more or less in unison, they all burped,

8 great ones.

It's a wonder they didn't fart.

An Old Man Addresses His Cock

My Cock, you have stood between me and success.

It is fitting now that you hang your head

and look limply toward a hole in The Earth,

the one you have never satisfied.

I know I am not very good at speeches,

but this is what it comes down to, finally,

an end of your corporal punishment.

May my Philosophy surround you.

And now that it’s over, please, don't get up.

Forget the great sound of one hand clapping.

Lead me into no more alleys and valleys.

And let us pretend we never met.

Finding Studs

He wanted to punch a hole in the wall

and threw his gyprock-ruining right

repeatedly, and repeatedly bawled,

Jesus! God! or Fucking Christ!

All of his wallops hit on studs

and did no damage, except to his hand,

his head, confounded by lots of suds,

at first was unable to understand.

He sat on the bed and held his mitt,

reduced to a curious, suffering mixture

of drunk insight and agony. Shit!

I never had that luck hanging pictures!

Older Man

Seeks younger woman

to express

lips on,

hips on,

dick in

and self.

Very sensitive.

Basically wants more

bucking

fucking,

face-sucking

and love.

No false teeth, please.

Prefers

good looks,

cooks,

never sooks,

and energetic.

May require some lifting.

Also appreciates

smart,

tart,

good heart

and neat.

Housework involved.

Send resume with photo

to: Headed for Utah

next week,

possibly sooner. Hurry.

Traffic Prayers

Plough us not into the back sides of cop cars

to whip the lash itself

and bring the big blue dudes back upon us

with flashing red eyes.

Run us through no stop signs to broadside judges,

pushing the angry trialers onto nearby lawns

and getting to meet them again later in court,

an old enemy with the upper hand.

Stand us not there with lawyers on drizzling streets

to puzzle over skid marks and await their friends, police.

Yea, let us not shiver their chassis from any direction,

nor bump their lips upon the dashes of our misfortune.

Wham we no one's head against no one's windshield,

except our own against our own, if that be thy will,

as it often seems. Collide us with nothing, not even a dog,

for we won't win, and anguish be ours.

Name-Calling

She writes to call me a lot of names

that have something to do with women's rights.

I answer I'm fairly feminist too,

though admittedly mainly masculist.

It is only an easy choice, these days,

depending on what's between your legs.

Then I go deeper: if sexists are bad,

masculists are bad and feminists are bad,

all -ists are bad, and I am a non-ist,

an honest nonist, I add.

She doesn't answer:

another example of trench warfare.

The Weight Lifter's Meditation

An enormous weight lifter was trying to shit.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! he cried,

but it was no use.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

He couldn't put down a kilogram.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

He really wanted to, but,

not so much as a fart.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

The stuff was in there sideways.

Uh. No dice.

He thought of his friends spotting him.

The squat. The jerk. The thrust. The smell.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

The ringing of dropped steel!

Fashion Show

Here we be introducing the arse rug.

It goes on over the head with a string.

The ears hold it up, or the windpipe, thus,

drawing attention to the nankin hat.

It drops down sharply in the back on both sides,

the string making straight little deltoid lines.

The rug continues its fall to the waist,

where a sideways stick gives added flare,

exaggerating the feral appeal of the bare front

with medium breasts. No ruching.

The sides are placketed, no real pockets,

but the hands may be placed therein on the hips.

The rug rides flatulent over the buttocks, if need be—

we prefer calm. A rust, red, blonde, blanched and blue

series of rings alternate with teal, that

the only link with tradition, that

and the fact that it's wool rope,

pre-washed ,shrunk, dyed and looped

elliptically with the imagination, where, on the floor,

the rug may be thrown, and the wearer,

in moments of total daring,

given a thorough and lasting impression.

The shoes and purse are optional.

A Woman

A woman is great excitement

because her hair spills enchantment

all around her lovable face.

She has grace and charm

for her body is not hard,

and neither is her mind very rough.

A woman is terrific temptation

because her secrets are many

and stuffing her dresses with perfect hints.

She is kind and tender and tolerant

for it is in her nature to forgive

and she has an even keel without hatred.

A woman is a great sport for she will usually oblige,

and she is not only generous but able, for she thinks well

and her fingers may be highly accomplished.

A woman is a good friend

because once she is on your side

she will stay there like a mother.

She is sympathetic and comforting

because she can imagine pain

and even cry about the misfortunes of others.

A woman is resilient and patient

for her strong nature can yield

naggingly until it has control.

A woman is worth putting up with

because she is made for it

and things would be worse if she went away.

A woman is so nearly perfect that if one turns

against a man he is probably intolerably wrong;

see verses 2, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8.

But luckily, she is made according to some plan,

whereby one will replace another smiling,

and forgive all sins against her.