Sex Poem 1435 BCE

He had a cock with the head of Anubis.

She had a honey pot called the “Well of the Souls”.

When they screwed it was like 

the Pharoahs had returned.

(Had they even ever left?)

(Nope.)

Building hot and fleshy monuments

To the erotic-Kings and sensual-Queens

That had come before. Oh so triumphant.

While out in the desert it was

All grunts and groans.

Like a million ass slaves

Was moving huge stones,

And not getting paid.

But instead of making pyramids

They was making love.

And instead of the Nile,

It was a cum-drenching flood.

Oh Egypt!

Oh Chaldea!

Oh Beefcake!

Oh Sweet Mama-mia!

Since the dawn of civilization 

People have been banging

Hard and sweaty and soft and fierce

And just like the Pharoahs

When they step out on the gallery

To address the throng—

Her meaty vagina.

His throbbing dong.

Witnessing their sex is liking seeing God(s)!

BOW DOWN! BOW DOWN! BOW DOWN!

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Bluestocking millennial soft sensual and brutal confusion. By Sally.

cocaineads_18Sally really was a ruined poet, a symbolizing idealizing soul who inherited too many problems. And did she ever make a point of laying it on thick to the rest of us. But don’t take my word for it, see for yourself. I’ll let her work speak for itself. So to begin, check this out:

“Soul of slabidinous jelly
Odious as the rankest crud nugget
Mother, oh Mother of mine.
Dearest Mother, GET YER FINGER OUTTA THERE!“

Are you kidding me? That’d give Joyce himself a bad case of the Double Dublin Gastric Spastics.
And take this prime example right here:

“Bowdlerize my cunt
You thief you thief you thief
Of (brown) bagged lunches.
Take my crackers and cheese
And P and B and J
And off with you
To suffer my doctrinaire piss curtains.“

Jeepers, what’s with the brackets? More pointedly, what’s with all that malarkey outside them?
Another example:

“Fly! Skyflyer! Fly!
Fly high in the sky!
Set cruise control to maximum zest
And shatter the impossible truth.
Pull up! Skyflyer! Pull up!
Take it to the limit
And push! Beyond!
Because there is no fucking envelope.“

Fun fact, Skyflyer was Sally’s nickname in high-school. Self decreed.
Fun fact #2, that poem stinks.
Here’s another choice cut:

“Tongue
Slurp
Eye
Poke
Toe
Jam
Soul
Journey
Incomplete.”

Seriously though, it’s like mental stool softener. Mixed with actual stool softener. And curare.
Just to be fair, and to give a sufficient representation of Sally’s oeuvre, I’ll leave you with one final piece of bardic wisdom:

“Our Heavenly Father Sol hung limp like a flaccid cock as the ring that had held it so engorged for so long that was the orbiting molten planet called Mercury having slipped off to travel on in adfinitum ad infinitum in a serious kiss off to gravity and meanwhile as a veiny dawn dragged itself over the horizon here on earth drops of moist sun like stale semen made life and death and whatever it is in between sticky and hot and there were no cold showers that day I tell you.”

Yup, that girl Sally sure is a maroon. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure her out. But you know how it is with all those mysterious ways your wonders to perform be. Am I right? Me neither.

Throw another poem on the barby

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Never send to ask for whom the frankfurter cooks. It cooks for me.
As we held our kabobs to cook in the futile heat of the ignis fatuus
The full moon cast its light like a silver anus over the swamp.
Dark shadows. Deep. Like Simon Peter as in his molasses and pancakes.
The night grew heavy like someone’s too good bad idea for bacon wrapped jalopeno poppers.
Put some Mortadella in there.
O, how much is too much of a good thing?
Like a sermon that has gone seven hours too long.
All the best bits have been masticated and swallowed.
And now it is only gristle.
That need be chewed and chewed and chewed.
O, lest it choke the life right out of you.
And soiled plates of paper.
Some barbecue that one.
Too bad no one told the holy man on his holy mountain.
And so as the ululations of the gathered grey skinned hags floated
Amongest the savory scents of grilled meat
And boss sounds of southern fried guitar rock.
It became like a marinade most foul applied far, far too late
In the game.
O, who brushes it on after the chops are already grilled?
No one.
That’s who.
Not even sweetest Jesus.
O, what next?
Mosquitoes joined the lamentations
Joined the soulless journey
Joined the grand inevitable.
Tell me not for even as the question was asked we knew the answer.
Put some beans on it.
Still some barbecue.
Some barbecue.
Barbecue.
Cold meat and hot coals and a spiced rub
Made by the maker for the carver to sleep soundly at night
Knowing his cuts die well in a good place.
Cooked through.
Blackened skin.
Juices running from within like wine from the stomach of a gutted drunk pig.
O, how one wonders how the heck it got into the vino.
Did the fella touched by God forget to latch the pen?
Or did the angry spirits of the night give it wings?
Did they coerce the fat thing into the cellar?
Did they unstopper the Nebuchadnezzar?
Did they give it a bowl of olives?
O, spirits, sure you are angry. But do you need to be so frigging mischievous?
Ye, good question.
And the woman wailed on.
The mosquitoes feasted.
The children stared up and wondered about the cosmos.
And the men?
They grilled on.
And the night.
O, the night.
Turned its back on the sunrise.
Some barbecue.

Sing like the Golden Hammer.

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The rhythm of the night came down hard last night.
Like a goddamn soulful atomic hammer.
Gave me the night passions real bad and heavy like.
Had me on the toilet well past the midnight hour, deep beneath the unblinking silver eye of the moon.
Moving my bowels to the nocturnal music like a bowl of spiritual chowder on a ship of flesh at sea on an ocean of emotion.
Each drop of melody splishy splashing on my body like God’s Golden Rain, moistening my skin to a resplendent musical sheen.
Bee deep bee dee beep.
That soulful sweet sound of toe-tapping rippa tippa all up inside the brown canal.
Yeah, that’s the stuff.
Like the mailbox that fell in love with the glove compartment.
Their forbidden love had eyebrows raised all over town.
But just like the rhythm of the night they took their tomy doored container passions and stoked them sweetly in the shadows until, like a cannon in a coal mine, they blew the roof off the thunder barrier.
Boom boom boom beep deep doom doom.
Love licks erotic songs like the infinite tongue in the sky.
And that taste you’re hearing? That’s the smoke of love.
Whiff woofer whomper whomp.

Xylose Xylophones and Dextrose Dreams

bone-feteYou’re gonna need a shower, once you hear my song. ‘Cause my melody is gonna cover you in treacle. Yeah, thick and sticky and super sweet. Tough to wash off, but do you really wanna? Like when the slaves had a good day making the pyramids, stacking those big bricks, and the Pharaohs were pleased. They said, “Nice job, feel free to worship your weird one-man god.” And it was a smooth groove on the banks of the Nile that night. That’s what this poem is gonna do to you, so get ready. It’s one…two…three…the pickle’s in the brine. It’s soaking like a miracle in the bucket, makin’ love to the salt and and the sugar and the spices. Makin’ gherkins. Call the brackish midwife ’cause these cukes is giving birth. Like that night at make-out point, and you were the castle, and I was the knight riding hard after having just slain the dragon. We got that draw bridge down and I crossed that hot moat. Don’t tell the duke, but the keep might be pregnant. Now, this melody is floating in the sky like cumulonimbus cotton candy booming chocolate thunder and spraying lemonade rain. Sure, it ruined the picnic. But it mawkened up the meadow, and all the little children were lickin’ up the grass and chewin’ up the blossoms. Landscaping, baby, the delicious way. Mmm…mmm… mmm…what a melody, call the dentist and make an appointment because it’s so saccharine it’s gonna rot your teeth out. Time to invest in some pearly veneers. Because this verse is gonna have you smiling, and no one wants to see your pustular choppers. So lay back in the chair and open that kiss factory and let the good doctor massage them gums with this candied refrain. It’ll have them fangs feeling fresher than a constipated man after a voodoo doodoo, cleansing his bowels with the soothing power of the dark arts. Ooo…ooo…ooo…Prepare for this aria, it’s like a honey wine lotion drippin’ over your skin and makin’ you feel like that time when our boys stormed the beaches of Normandy. Ratatatatatatat! Boomboomboom! You’ve got sand in your eye but that’s not sand, it’s sugar, baby. You’ve got blood on your bayonet but that’s not blood it’s organic molasses, baby, because this song’s so toothsome that even the horrors of war can’t compete. Drape the flag on the coffin and the twenty-one guns go off and let yourself get lost in this syrupy melody. Yeah…yeah…yeah…what a time to be alive, when a tune like this can exist like bacon in the sun on a wagon to the west. Welcome to the frontier. Sure it’s hell but if you’re willing to work hard you can make a life here. Just look out, ’cause the natives are restless and they’re looking to cut your heads off and boil them up and hang them on the wall of their mud and thatch huts. But that’s not mud, it’s chocolate. And that’s not thatch but filo pastry. And those aren’t savages they’re high fructose corn syrup. And this all just a sweet, sweet melody. And we’re all the CEO of a Japanese confection concern. Dwop…dwop…dwop…