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Here I stand
With my pecker in my hand,
Helplessly pursuing
my own undoing
by spraying the seed of the
human weed
on every egg and ova I can find.
O Dong, O Dick,
You colossal ultra-prick
Bomb of concentrated frustration,
Fuse lit in anticipation,
A bead of sweat upon your brow,
Seeking that slippery place
Of friction and agitation,
To find that celebration
and relieve that tense sensation.
Letting go, without reservation,
A tremendous ejaculation.
O John, O Jock,
You grand super-cock,
You throbbing, burning volcano
Looming over the Earth
Erupting
Shooting your liquid fire
Over the land
A million sperm with each spasm,
rolling, squirming, swimming
Inexorably toward the
Womb Sea.
© Edison S. Fisk, 2009. All rights reserved.
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This poem was stored separately from the rest and nearly went undiscovered. The rusty staple mark on the upper left corner suggests that this was the last page of his original collection.
ReplyDeleteP.S. Don't forget to read this in light of its title.
This must have been the poem Pinky had started to read when he got arrested. What the audience saw, before the curtain came crashing down, was a tall, bald man wearing a long, black opera cape flashing a yellow satin lining, a long, thick candle projecting at a strategic location from the front of the cape. Pinky claimed he had warned the "friend" who invited him to do a poetry reading, "We ain't never gonna get away with this." But his friend, a member of the faculty at a school for learning disabled people, had insisted it would be just fine.
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