If this poem was a symbol, it would be phallic.

This poem spits words in your face
It’s queer and it’ll fuck with your head
It breaks all the rules and expects to be published
begs to be bound, hard back, in black leather

This poem got drunk on the way to this reading
at a bar called The Mine Shaft, The Eagle, or The Anvil
It yelled at the cops and pissed on the sidewalk
heaved up politically incorrect confessions about me:

I’m hot for men you know, not just any men but
men who are straight, dangerous, vulgar, sexist, married
men who work on construction sites
men who whistle at young, blonde, built women
men who’d let me suck their dicks, if I wasn’t so gutless

This poem would like to weep
but it has forgotten how to spell the words
greef, hartache, hert, daddee, wye?
remembers only anger, injustice, death rape vengeance

No means nothing to this poem
It is a big, thick, uncut idea, swollen rock hard-copy
words are forced into it, pulled out roughly
and written with the rape blood of my 18 year old ass

This poem could use a shower – it doesn’t wear deodorant
It tastes like cum piss man-sweat cheese
It lingers on my lips, it dribbles down my chin
It doesn’t play safe and it couldn’t fucking care less.

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