Jeff Bagato

by Arthur Graham on March 6, 2018

A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, glitch video, and street art. Some of his text and visual poetry has appeared in Midnight Lane Boutique, Rusty Truck, Otoliths, Chiron Review, and Outlaw Poetry, while short fiction has appeared in Gobbet and The Colored Lens. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry) and The Toothpick Fairy (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at



Pussy Marches On



My Cock

I have a cock when I want one. I pull it out and it comes out, long and hard and heavy. Filled with jissom just like any cock. But unlike most cocks, my cock is full of pussy.

I am that pussy. The Doom Pussy.

When I take out my cock, it’s time to fuck. Nails reaches over to his ankles and readies for climax.

The cock enters. My cock.

He screams because it’s all pussy going in. Pussy fucking his cock.

I take him to the end of cock. That’s the end of your world, a world of cock. Cock values. Cock values have no meaning in a world of pussy. And I want to tell you cocks a secret that will kill you and destroy your blind feeble world of sterile cock: This is a pussy world. Pussy fucking your cock every moment. My cock fucking your cock. My cock fucking your cock. MY COCK A PUSSY FUCKING YOU FULL OF PUSSY AND EVENTUALLY YOU BECOME PUSSY. That is my goal. World without cock or cock values. Because cock refuses to coexist with pussy or any other force or value.

Your world of cock is an island surrounded by a raging sea, pussy fucking your cock, my cock fucking your cock, a sea of pussy surrounding your cock. Slowly eroding your cock values. A world without Cock but not without cocks, because who can live without a good piece of cock?

A world without cock, without time, without death, without mind.

His knees spread open and flat on his back, Nails begs for cock. “Pussy, I gotta have your cock.”

“You’ve certainly come to neglect the preliminaries.”

“Well, I did offer you a drink.”

I kick back the remains of the whiskey sour, stroking my prick into deliberate action. A drop of pre-come forms in the crevice of the glans. Nails glances longingly at it, then deep into my eyes.

“What do you say?”

“Now, Pussy, now.”




Pussy Is War Because Pussy Is Now

We are at war. Our mission is to destroy cocks. On a bombing run, we might kill hundreds of cocks and hundreds rise in their place. This doesn’t leave a lot of time for fucking. I find I make up for lost time by fucking in the air, at the controls of the chopper, howling over jungle night sky with cocks shrieking bestial ape screams below. Smash may be in the copilot’s seat, or Nails, and he takes out a fat prick from the fly of his olive drab flight suit. I’m all over it from across the plane. Sweet cock fucking my cunt. My cunt swallowing that gorgeous prick. My cunt gorging on that prick, swallowing prick. The chopper controls unattended.

Flying out of control.

This is our war against cock.

Flying out of control we will defeat the cocks.

“Pussy, your chopper is all over the sky. Report immediately. Are you hit?” The commander’s voice sounds tinny over the intercom but full of concern.

“I’m getting cock, fucking his cock. Entering the jungle. Right now it shoots and I am all over it. Not a cock survives.”

His cock fucking my cunt, becoming pussy with each stroke. He leans me over the control panel folding my legs up to the windscreen, his cock pushing me back slowly, pussy juice pouring out over the panel. His cock becoming pussy with each stroke. We are flying out of control. His cock fucking me until I take it back. I find my own cock and bring him back to me. Smash do you want my cock?

“I’ve been waiting too long, baby.”

“Spread your cock for me. Let me stick it in.”

He’s taking my cock in his cock. I work it deep up his cock and then I pull it out just as slowly and move to his asshole. His cock in my pussy, I feel each stroke. His cock beside my cock. The chopper takes us far out over the jungle until there’s no way to get back. We’re too far over the cocks.

“Come in me.”

I’m coming in him. The rotor blades cutting into the wind, roaring enormously, calling up the earthquake and winds coming up from the ocean. The rain and wind washing over the jungle even this deep inland. Destroying the cocks.

I’m coming in him, him shooting jissom into my cunt, and filling his cock and asshole, I’m shooting it into him. Coming I’m coming myself he’s shooting his jissom. I find I’m holding my cock in my hand watching the jissom blurt out onto his balls as they hang down over me folded up between control panel and windscreen.

The chopper careens over the writhing jungle. I feel him coming me. His cock in me coming. Coming me, forcing him back into pussy. Come in me, come in me, now, now, this is now, the chopper everywhere at once. I see he is filling with my come. My coming in him fills me. The jungle beneath the chopper explodes with the earthquake we’re coming.

Earthquakes rising in my war. Tornadoes rising, floods rising, winds rising. Pussy is my war. I’m coming and this war is coming faster, faster; cocks die and the pussy keeps coming. His cock heavy and I lean him back, folding him up against the windscreen, enter his cock with my pussy and fuck him back into pussy.

The earth exploding jungle beneath us. Flying out of control.



Information War I

Death is a human form of hate. Man invented death to slap the wrists of the bacchanalians drinking then fucking themselves into ecstasy every night in the forests teeming with fresh ripe fruit and vegetables. The death inventors got their schadenfreude kicks when they saw the wilted faces of the revelers upon receiving the final report. Their drinking went from joy to bitterness. Everyone was miserable so no one was unhappy. The Haters spread the news; mass communication invented so that more people can know death more of the time. We are drowning in messages of death-hatred. Not hatred of death. We have come too far for that, and now everyone loves death because it’s so easy.

No, this is hate through death. Death as the tool for most efficient hatred. And democracy its most efficient vehicle—the political principles of democracy built on those of that great equalizer Death. A tyranny of believers. Surely you believe you have the right to die? And more than that, you have the right to know that your neighbors will die too, not one of them exempt, even unto the apex of the great pyramid. In this, the Haters take comfort. They are not alone in their fear, their hate, their dying. You are coming, too.

Death is the greatest lie. At the very root, we are most against this principle of Cock. The most offensive, bullying principle ever devised in hate.

But no matter how hard we might try to save them, cocks die. They have to die; they believe death to the very end. They die throughout their living. Even in living they die, and even though they never truly die, they are dead. Even when impossible, a cock dies; he insists on death.

Ultimately, we cannot argue with such a potent illusion. Let the dead cocks die, and that part that lives, welcome it back to the land of the living.

Pussy is waiting for every cock that lives.



Information War II

“We will make you understand pussy,” Doom Pussy says confidently, looking down at the cock spy, Denton. He was caught investigating a crashed doom pussy chopper out in the jungle. Pussy gestures to Nails and Smash, who enter the debriefing room with their equipment.

“The pole,” Nails grunts. “Specific for cocks.”

We tie his wrists and lower forearms together in front of him, forcing the elbows apart and forcing the knees between them. The pole is pushed through the hole created by elbows and knees. Then we tip him back on his spine, propping the feet on an overturned stool so that the feet are raised about a foot off the ground.

He rocks back into the fetal position, thighs pressed against chest so tightly he can hardly breathe and body tilted at such an angle that most of his weight is on the spine. The pole is the key to the rig: properly tied, he eventually passes out and falls on his side; the end of the pole hits the floor and slides out of the rig, easing pressure on the arms and restoring circulation. The pain that comes when returning circulation brings him back to consciousness. A prisoner can never beat the rig by passing out.

“We will break you now.”

In time, pain becomes an all-encompassing entity, a fiery, blinding devil that courses into every part of the brain until he will do anything to escape it. He feels the heart pumping mightily to force the blood through the strangled limbs, hoping it will give out. The pain rises up from his arms to the brain. Control dissipates. Memory looks into darkness. In the darkness—Pussy.

“Right about now he should be getting an eyeful,” Doom Pussy says.

“Pure nectar!” Smash crows.

“Look,” Nails points down at the man’s chest. “He must not think so.” His breathing had stopped. The pole is still in place.

Doom Pussy kicks the pole, sends Denton rolling onto his side. They can see the slack return to the ropes. The blood returning to the arms, hands. He doesn’t struggle, shift, fight the pain. Doom Pussy kneels to inspect his vital signs.

“You can’t even kill with this rig,” Smash says, surprised.

“The will to die is strong…,” Nails slaps his hand between Smash’s shoulder blades, “…in a cock.”

Doom Pussy stands, poking Denton with her boot. “Cocks go to death like flies to shit,” she says. “The one principle they’re loyal to. Guess you gotta expect it.”



Information War III

Doom Pussy captured by cocks. She lays on her back now, naked, her bound wrists over her head, held by a swarthy soldier.

“We will make you understand cock.”

“Bring it on, dickhead.”

Frost leans over into her face. “I can see that you’re going to give me a great deal of pleasure. I’m going to show you what cock is all about.”

“This won’t take long, then.”

There is a flurry of activity in the jungle at the edge of the clearing, and then the sudden report of a starter as a huge truck roars to life in the near distance. A fiery red monster thrusts through the dense vegetation, flashing lights and gunning its engine. The men cheer as the fire truck crushes aside twelve-foot palm trees before it brakes into position.

“That’s our water supply,” Watkins smiles down at her. “We got tired of trying to catch rainwater. Cumshawed the thing in the city. There’s underground water, so we borrowed a drill and drilled us a well, and that’s our pump. Got enough pressure, we shoot it straight up and all get a shower.”

Two other men hold her legs apart. A burly black man stands over her, screaming, “Where Timmy? Where da resta Timmy? Cunt! Whore! You gonna die, oh, you gonna die bad! You gonna wear your cunt in you mouth! Talk t’me, woman!”

He was raging, storming, pacing back and forth. A geyser of water erupts from the fire truck, falling on the crowd of soldiers. Every one of them gathers closer as the huge hose is brought into the circle. The black soldier shakes the hose in Doom Pussy’s face. The tarnished brass nozzle is forced between her legs, forced against the resilient folds of flesh. Her eyes start open. A scream leaps from her throat, a sound unlike any other. Red and pink and brown and white and green, a torrent of mixed blood and flesh and high pressure steam knocks the intimate circle back. The white flood of water dies away, the lifeless hose discarded.

In the flood, Doom Pussy had roared out of her body with the water pressure, riding the wave of it. The force slammed her into a young overweight soldier. In a moment, she forces his astral body out of the physical.

“Come back when you trim down a bit, softy!”

The fat astral gives a last, longing look at his comfortable ride.

Franklin fires a warning shot in the air, stilling the ring of dancing men.

“Pussy is War! Cock only dies!”

Franklin’s second shot finds Frost between the eyes, his brains lashing out onto the crowd behind him. The second and third catch soldiers fatally in the heart and temple.

“Look at me, I am pussy!”

Some of the soldiers can’t help a guffaw escaping, gasping for breath.

Franklin points the semiautomatic rifle at Watkins, gesturing for him to lay on the ground. Then gestures to the black soldier. “Give him the hose.”

“How many bullets can he have?” somebody from the crowd calls out.

“Somebody snuff him!”

The black soldier leaps at Doom Pussy in the fat new body with a shout, goes down instantly, cut across the frontal lobe.

“Let’s go, cocks.” The rifle barking over and over. When it is over, the men are hushed, looking at the dead. Franklin pulls the pin on a grenade he found in a satchel at his waist next to a C-ration. Kisses it. Runs flatfooted into the crowd and takes a little leap to belly flop into the formation. The grenade coughs blood and flesh across the jungle clearing.

But Doom Pussy is gone, long gone.



Chaos Only Days Away

When cock dies
so also does death

and memory looks
into darkness

into darkness—

Pussy in the dark
with velvet tongue
fucking out
through you

but first cock dies
first death dies
memory dies
time dies
cock dies

Pussy comes



Previous post:

Next post: