Kitchen Note for the Masses
Whether you're a cuntlicker or a cocksucker
you are human you are human you are human
meat with a mouth for meat tho taste buds vary
very very rump to the door that won't stay shut
like your mother's thighs the moment you were
began with meat thrusting meat your parents only
2 people who fucked & you born to suck nipple
till carnivorous teething bit her breast such suckage
leaving you to lick your plate & eyeball
(some French hummer you'd gobble soixante-neuf)
Kant seems to have treated all sex this way, holding that
"sexual love makes of the loved person an object of appetite;
as soon as that appetite has been stilled, the person is cast aside
as one casts away a lemon which has been sucked dry"
& i wanna lick you from head to toe
noshing a daisy chain blown by the bisexual
gusts of tonsil hockey in meatless catacombs
your head awhirl with skull-fuck
look good enough to eat" James Dean's
for Elizabeth Taylor on celluloid
the lip service you desire in a field of fingerprints
where hanging orgasms drip spasms thro
throat strang stranglings
all in one skin
on sale against pissed-on walls Xperienced enough to know
assholes can be fun in bed
tongue sandwiches are in the fridge & the rest is
or silence or something like that
The Keeper of the Bed
Palace orgies prove happiness is a penis;
All have one, though women call theirs a clitoris;
All have one, except for me. I've suffered
From a swift sword that left me smooth as my pubis.
Two of the Sultan's eunuchs brought me to a hut.
They fed me opium and, too soon, my eyes shut.
This was sixteen-sixty-nine and I, a child
Only knew their stripping me made my penis jut.
Now, in my turban, I carry a silver quill
Through which I must urinate to avoid a spill.
I'm considered a third sex, with no libido;
Cut off from the function that is life's greatest thrill.
Yet I choose the young virgins who will come to know
Intercourse, cunnilingus, and fellatio.
The Sultan's lust enthralls me, so I watch
As nude torsos spasm and orgasms echo.
Within this harem's walls, I'm oppressed by the flaw
Of having only nipples to squeeze or rub raw.
I'd refuse priceless jewels to possess a
Rich with nerves, swelling with the pleasure it can draw.
Packing for Italy
Who wouldn't catch the next flight to David's crotch?
Hard to believe anyone in mental order would miss the chance to
Derange all senses at the sculptured scent of Michelangelo's sweaty palms
How lovingly they stroked smooth hard beauty out of stone
How lovingly will my hands follow the master's strokes
Or to kneel upon the grave of Keats and slurp spaghetti
Sparks of blood-red tomato sauce baptizing the
Holy shit this is Keats and worse yet my future
Held in the gnawing mouths of worms
While moths carry away the memory cells of my soul
His soul living in tree skins his soul reaching out of books
In the shadow of a phallic tower
ready to lay
Flat as rolled dough
And my final squashed words will be
In search of true self yet caught in catacombs
Lined with continuous grins and sparkling sulfur sockets
Staring at meatballs escaping the tonsil-revving throats of opera
Stars shattering the glass eyes of uncertain onlookers
by Ronnie Burk