Sunday, May 23rd, 2010...11:16 pm

ben smith | eight shots

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The shoot

Porn often ends
in a one woman
victory
against he world
of man.

Blowing warm
white chunks
and spitting spoof
bubbles
at the camera.

Crying out Shit,
like;

“Fuck me in my ass
You piece of shit
Fuck me in my ass.”

It always reminds me of
Mac Beth
and V.Wolfe
and Thatcher;

And the first time
I ever pre cummed
or couldn’t get
hard cause I was
too drunk.

A woman
screaming

“you piece of shit,
You fucking piece of shit,
Fuck me in my ass.”

Honey still dripping
out of her reamed out
dick hole.

All work and no play

We chisel at the rock
and our faces get covered
in a thin pale grey dust.

Our eyes red and wet.
Peering out of the dullness
like vaginas in the snow
or a fresh bullet hole in a
Shaved head.

His eyes that smile as we
Pretend we are soldiers in
A war.

Holding the jack hammer
on my shoulder like
it’s a rocket launcher
and the wall is a run
of crazy Japs.

He laughs,
Giggles almost.
You have no idea;
Its in
his eyes.

Eyes that show
The confusion
I imagine his mother would
Have had.

His eyes that tell me a secret.

With out embarrassing him
or ruining the moment

I nod behind his back
and whisper –

I know dude,
there is someplace
id rather
be
too.

Seem

“Oh My God!
You have a scratch on
your dick!”

She says and points
A questioning
finger at my length.

I look down
and fiddle around,
looking
for the cut,
half scared to death.

There is a red
line
running from the
head of my dick
to the base of
my balls.

“No baby,
That’s just the
seem.”

“Oh God,
Did you get it opened up?”

“No dude,
Every man has it,
I think.”

Then I peel pack the
skin and show her
the tip
and its road.

“Ewww! Don’t do that!”

She says.

Getting out
of the bath, and wrapping
a towel around her beautiful
body.

Etta James plays
in the back ground
as I hear her
heavy feet stomp
down the hall.

I look down
at my penis.

My only friend.

His tired little head
and his split in half
gut
looks back
at me with a
puppy dog eye.

Don’t worry
little man,

all you got in this
world is your
pride.

Etta James
screams,

like a wild
calf caught in
a storm.

All so fucking funny

She wipes the cum
From her face with her
Pajama bottoms.

Walking across the room
Her perfect ass;

A cleavage of God.

Cleft and palate’
Smooth and taut
Consumable.

Across the floor
She switches off
The light and crawls
Under the sheets.

Im left to wonder,
In the dark,
If all couples are
Like us.

Once the door is closed
And no one says
Anything more.

Man eater

Black hair,
like a frame around white skin.
Gold; shit loads of gold.

Jingling

Black, White, Gold.

And Tits.

She sips at a bottle
of vodka with masking tape
around its belly
and drums on the glass
with long
get fucked finger nails,
That have most likely
Danced inside a few vaginas.
She says

“Believe me Ben,
i have seen balls before.
But these balls, Ben?
These balls?
These balls were
Fucking huge.”

She takes another sip.
Shuts her eyes
Most likely
picturing the balls
and letting the vodka
burn her throat.

Lights a smoke,

Exhales
and smiles.

“some things
You just cant forget.”

I nod and tip
The neck of my beer
In her direction.

In the kitchen light
she sits.

Framed by the black
of he room
and the gold
and the tits.

Sits there like
every another woman of
the world
searching for a fella
who will act
like a man
when the time is right.

And a pair of
big
big
Fucking balls.

I might believe

She has a big crucifix
around her neck
that sits in her
cleavage
the way a modern day
Jesus probably would.

She tells me she
is married to
God.

I say

“I guess
you gotta believe in
something,
but if rapist
with a gun in a mouth
is telling you
to chew a barrel,

you can pray as hard as
you like
but god wont
be the one
Cumming”

Stealing the press

There is
a lipstick stain
on her glass.

Pinkish.

The perfect shape
of a kiss.

When she stands
to go to the toilet,
i steal her glass
and suck off
the whale blubber
and animal fat
like its a flavour

Like its a kiss.

She comes back
and i wipe
my mouth.

tripping the fuck

I call the black
fella, who works
at the gas station,
brother
and I spend the
next few minutes,
like a bumbling goose,
being an
overly polite
nervous
white person.

When I get home
I say to the missus,
as I draw circles in
my sketch book,
to let me know if
she thinks of a good
poem
because
im fucked for ideas.

She doesent
So I just sit around
And suck the flavour
From a packet of
Arnots shapes,

Begging for
A blow
Job.

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