Fulminates
(Catullus XVI)
I’ll fuck you both and fuck your fucking faces
Aurelius, you nonce, you bitch Furius
who think I must be some kind of pussy creep
because my verse is tender and a bit risqué.
A poet should be well-mannered and decent
the poetry itself, not necessarily,
the which (mine, anyway) has a grain of wit
because it’s tender, a little bit risqué
enough to rouse an itch and scratch it, not just
in spotty kids, but in hairy old geezers
who otherwise can’t get it on at all.
You read about my thousand kisses and somehow
infer a kisser hasn’t got a cock?
Fuck you both and fuck your fucking faces.
I Find
I’m on my way to you, tutelar
shabby and locked, if there’s single malt
in your nostrils you don’t need it
in your mouth
last time I got laid
someone else’s bacon
was frying up the stair combined
with spermicide it smelled like olives
steeping in brine
I would say Turkey
but others would say Greece
and be no less wrong. One day this whole
mentor/pupil thing will have to end
in the sack
or throwing delft
but not yet, o my lord, not yet. Sweet
Jesu, the frisson I get pretending the fealty
stubborn to you—I want to be
your rawboned tomboy
so we can be
Davy and Alan staging a bit of hurt/comfort
to cadge a boat, I want to box
you like a hare, put you in my mouth
like a Jew’s harp
I can turn meat to fruit
call it a superpower. You’ve been
my Hays Code through most of Twentieth
Century, one boat-long foot
on the floor at all times
but in the middle of the bed
the river runs deep, you’ve managed to
raincheck joi compleat once again forever
I am a narroweyed freightjumping
Appalachian urchin
with tattooed knuckles
a knackered paperback of A Good Man
Is Hard To Find and Other Stories
splayed open on her shoulder
bleeding
into her panties
as girls have done since before there
were panties and I am riding riding
riding riding riding this boxcar away
from you, tutelar.
