Hukka Bukka

by Horror Sleaze Trash on March 25, 2012

Hukka Bukka is Hukka Bukka’s real name–sometimes. He lives in seclusion in a shotgun shack in Elvis’ hometown. A mild-mannered reporter, he hates all people, except women when they’re nice to him and defer to his pet whims, which include licking peanut butter off his bad thing, reading Henry Miller to him while crapping in the cat litter, and sticking licorice in their nostrils just before they come.  He is the author of one full-length collection of poems and four chapbooks. He has written 71,323 poems. He is also an incorrigible liar.
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I WANT TO FUCK YOU

Instead of playing the same old games with you,

Rather than throwing hackneyed bullshit your way,

Not one to bring roses before the wine-and-dine-routine,

I’ll be crude and say I want to fuck you.

I want to look at those sleepy green eyes and say,

Let’s do it in a bathtub of spaghetti sauce, let’s do it on a bed

of hundred dollar bills, let’s fuck while Jay’s blaring.

I’ll suggest every way we can perform the perfect animal act under

a twilit day in the fast lane city.

I’ll do anything to see where your legs disappear.

I’ll be gross, a gentleman, a cad, a gambler carrying a diamond cane

for copulation’s sake.

Will you believe me when I say I only want your mind?

Will you call me a randy cock when I grab your tits?

Will you forgive this rhetoric and not call me sentimental?

I suffer for lack of your buttocks.

I am bad, I am a desperate, demented dirty old man.

I want to fuck you.

In the cherry orchards outside your daughter’s pool patio.

In the backseat of your ’57 Studebaker.

Everywoman, I want to drill into you life,

for the only abortions I believe in are poems.

I want to find you some midnight and keep you the way you are,

wearing white.

I want you to cook sausage and eggs after we screw all night.

You can be on top if we’re on an elevator in the Big Apple.

But no, this is Memphis, the city of vampires.

Where sex is a mongoloid everybody hides in homes.

Where sex whispers in our ears like a hoarse beggar.

I want to fuck you anyway.

Fuck you on Halloween, both of us wearing monster masks.

Your garters shining under the voyeur moon.

With neighborhood brats giggling and clapping as we both come.

While bookies collect the action on God’s most desired sinful act.

I want to fuck you after you’ve seduced me in a junk yard, after

we’ve climbed a hill of rusty steel.

I want to meet you in a supermarket, toss the lamb chops on the linoleum,

hump and thump you in the freezer display, the cold icing our asses.

I want to fuck you in a Graceland church under an Elvis crucifix.

I want dogs to bark, babies to bawl, guns to shoot all over this ragdoll

city when we engage in coitus.

I want to cream in you in a forgotten graveyard, just before the cops’

blue sirens wail through our orgasms,

I want to crank you on a steamboat smuggling coke for hot D.C. sexpots.

I don’t care if you dislike me for my language.

I want you to react, not fall asleep saying No.

I want you to claw my back when I’m giving you everything I’ve got.

I want you to moan to the sun when we’re buzzsawing on our high rise roof.

I don’t care how many times you don’t want to fuck.

I need to thirty percent of my waking hours.

I want to caress you like no movie star I ever have caressed.

I want to fuck you, not talk about your divorce.

Not about the lasagna you had with Rock last night.

Not about the kid you killed with your Volvo the other day.

My ego requires that highest compliment, You’re the best.

I’d stop shaving for a year if you’d let me take off your slip with my nose.

My smiles would melt into your kisses if you’d let me slide your panties

down those young sycamore legs.

I’d tongue every inch of your butterscotch body.

I’d tell any lie about the pyramids to sack you harder than a quarterback.

I’d mix tenderness and violence in a marriage of schizophrenics.

I have to have your body before I die.

I must sing to you under a basement balcony.

I must tell you my latest sexist jokes while I bang you.

If you wanted me to, I’d be Putin’s sycophant.

If I could con you into opening your door, I’d give you my gold.

You don’t know how I feel.

I dream of your 38-23-37 figure every day, while secretly I’d love you

a bit boyish, like my kid sister.

I want you to be my mother as I suck your mango tits.

You don’t have a face—only a cunt.

I’d eat it forever if I had a farm of strawberries along with it.

I’d eat it even if you farted as I sipped and supped.

I want to fuck you at seven o’clock in the morning.

I want to lay you in the post office under WANTED posters.

I must have you in the name of conquest.

I have to have you in the name of love and lust.

Will you please me or say Fuck off?

Can I follow you home to your hot tub, drink White Russians by lamplight,

and dance to the Tennessee waltz?

Even if I read you poems by Marvell, Donne, Browning, Shakespeare,

and myself?

I want to fuck you in your 40-year-old Rapunzel-haired wonder.

I want to whisper into your sensitive ears the parables of Satan, Jesus,

and Woody Allen.

I crave you after I eat oysters and vanilla custard.

I’d love to fuck you in a Ferris wheel as it’s ascending.

The whole circle would crack like a giant egg.

The sun would grin, the sky would chuckle.

Crowds would spit in the eyes of the corrupt President.

As I fuck you I want to think of the kingdom lost in the name

of the most desired quantity.

Can you be an immortal celebrity forever, with your famed clit that

twitters in spasms when you’re wiggling to a bossa nova catechism?

I know you accuse me of hating women.

But I still want to fuck you.

I live for the moment I can drive and drive and drive forever into you,

the most beautiful hussy in the world.

At the muscle club, in a telephone booth, in the cargo belly of an airplane

where we’ll play Mr. & Mrs. Job.

I’d rather fuck you than eat.

I know the color of your body’s skin in an orange-glow room.

I dwell on whether your toes curl when you scream with disappointed ecstasy.

I will sing 582 country and western songs to get into your pants.

I will lie and say I can stand women.

I will hitchhike a ride with a carload of drunk Indians to get to your house

and hug you in a necessity of foreplay.

You know by now I need your body worse than a check to pay my gas bill.

Every part of it, especially your pussy.

It doesn’t matter if I have to die in clever ways.

It doesn’t matter if sable is more expensive this time of year.

All I know is I want your blossomed body.

The challenge of the unattainable is too much for peanut pride.

The anathema of blemishes makes me puke with anticipation.

I know you won’t disappoint me.

Bite me in the balls as your first submissive duty.

I’ll pay anything for a look at those moon-crater nipples.

I’ll sing “How Sweet I Roamed From Field to Field” for a taste of your true soul.

Don’t reject me.

Don’t order me to climb a streetlight and give the bulb a blow job.

Tell me I can have that legendary fig of yours, pink in its hot beauty,

folded like a dream nobody’s dreamed.

Promise me you are my last hope to be human.

Call me Romeo, call me Bono, call me Valentino, but give me some of that renowned

hair pie.

I’ll let you whip me with your hickory switches.

I’ll let you sit on my ageing Auden face.

I’ll open bank accounts in your name.

You could become the world’s most powerful woman.

All you have to do is let me fuck you.

In  the stadium while the Giants are stomping the Cowboys 69-0.

In the boxing ring, with the world’s hungry watching, we’ll be each other’s prize.

We’ll fuck and fuck until the universe implodes in a climax of H-bombs.

We’ll rub ourselves raw in caves, listen to Beatles records, and view the Olympics.

We’ll be a paradigm of physical prowess.

Let me fuck you before I turn fag.

Let me bite your neck before my keepers catch up with me.

I want to fuck you before I die.

I want to gently scrape my teeth over every inch of your famous skin.

Let me comb my fingers through your sand-specked hair.

Say Yes to every question I propose.

Pretend I’m Picasso at his most potent.

Pretend I’m a priest who’s never fucked a nun like you.

Say I’m Goliath, say I’m Dilbert, say I’m a little boy.

But let me fuck you before my gonads shrivel into raisins.

I’m beyond despair.

Let me fuck you before I write the greatest love poem ever scribbled.

Will you let me love you tonight in a quicksand pit of daisies?

Why won’t you even say Maybe?

What do you want besides my dick, money, and charm?

I want to fuck you, can’t you see that?

I want to see angels applaud our act.

I want Elvis to resurrect in his necrophiliac glory.

I want the Lone Ranger’s silver bullet to resurface.

I want to fuck you with your husband’s blessing.

I want to sell my heart for your best weapon.

I won’t tell anybody how you just lay there on the burning haystack.

I won’t brag to your other boyfriends.

I won’t tell them you were one polluted pussy.

I won’t be disgusting as a loaded jock strap.

I’ll do anything for your sunken treasure.

Anything, anything.

Telephone me, telegraph me, e-mail me, rent a billboard, say you’ll rub my back,

write me a poem before you let me fuck you.

Talk to me, say Yes, I want to fuck you too, because I’m lonely, because I’m horny.

Because I’m human. Fuck me when I’m not looking, Fuck me like a stuttering

staccato. Saunter me ala Astaire. But yes, I want to fuck you, too. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, forever and ever and ever and ever.

Yes, tell me I’m yours, tell me I’m the greatest since Ali,

Lie to me, but lie down next to me,

Let me guide you to forty-one symphony screams,

Let me show you who God really is, how big his prick is,

Serenade me as I’m rocking you to “Let it Bleed,”

Close your eyes directed toward the galaxies as I’m wildcatting you,

Vanish in a flash of invisible light and join all the great lovers of eternity

And come back to me as I’m ready to come,

Tell me I’m tremendous, terrific, sincere, sensational, mellifluous, tell me

you love me

And I’ll never, ever, ever again say to you

I want to fuck you.

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