Painting by Paul Lovering
Little whore stares at me
through them goofy glasses
when she don’t think I’m lookin’.
Don’t talk to me, though.
She’s scart. I’m glad.
Ought to be scart.
Gets taller ev’ry durn visit,
them legs growin’ out long
like a colt’s, curls fallin’ over her face
when she leans to warm that sexy
little butt by the fire.
Liked her better in nappies,
toddlin’ in when I called
so I could quick stick
my finger down to her privates.
Gettin’ her ready for the real thing.
Gettin’ her so’d she’d like it.
Now she runs off when I call her,
folks gone for our monthly groceries.
Hides in that durn bathroom.
Don’t never figure I can pop
that latch out of the hook
with a little jiggle.
Squirms into the closet.
Hell, a gnat couldn’t hardly
get lost in there.
Can’t get my john henry hard
what with all this runnin’ goin’ on.
Her mouth works just fine, though.
Tight as a pig’s ass and smoother.
All that gaggin’ pisses me off,
though, so I smack her.
I smack her when she curls
in a ball on the floor, too.
Knows about my bad hip.
Knows I cain’t git down there.
I kick her real hard in places
her mama won’t see.
She’s always up some tree
or turnin’ those silly flips
and cartwheels, fallin’ down.
What’s another bruise gonna prove?
Sometimes she mumbles about flyin’
on the ceiling with angels, watchin’
the devil do things to some other lil girl,
another lil girl that looks like her.
The child is half looney you ask me.
Don’t never seem to remember what I tole her
I’d do if she tattled on me to her mama.
Half the time she don’t even seem to remember
what it was she weren’t meant to tell.
Wish I had her here ev’ry day
‘stead of three times a year.
She’d remember then fer sure!
Oh, someday she’ll thank me.
Every lil girl needs a real man
to teach her.
Painting by Gustav Klimt
Those golden men (led by
their second head) turn weed
into bouquets, stars
into garlands. Every word
from their mouth drifts, aromatic,
through the lusting air.
Notched belts tumble
from their closets.
No rivals, these one-notch,
one woman men, dressed
in yesterday’s fashion,
tripping over their own feet
and tongues in awkward
attempts to express love.
They wait, hearts in their hands,
in the shadows. Bypassed.
Bottle-necked in love’s canyon
until, burned by the sun, penises
limp from overexertion, the super lovers
tumble and we finally take notice
of the steadfastness of shadows.