Poetry
She reads my
Poems and says
I suppose if
I fuck you
You’ll write a
Poem about it
And everyone
Will know.
I slide my hand
Up her thigh
And say
“No one reads poetry.”
Charles Rammelkamp
Assassin
A few months after Chapman
gunned down John Lennon,
I was in New York
visiting a friend.
We smoked a joint,
walked through Central Park
that cold bright February day,
chatting about whatever
came to mind,
emerging at Seventy-second Street.
My Olympus OM-1
with the telephoto lens
like the barrel of an elephant gun
slung around my neck,
I offered to shoot Roger
in front of the Dakota.
As I fiddled with the focus ring,
a little disoriented by the dope,
a blond woman swept out
from the building,
past the servile doorman,
celebrity self-conscious, glamorous
in big Onassis sunglasses,
cocooned in full-length fur.
Seeing me aim at Roger,
she ducked her head,
threw her hand in front of her face,
as if to deflect a blow,
hailed a passing taxi,
which swerved to the curb
like a sedan in a police thriller.
The cab headed downtown,
a getaway car
blending with the traffic.
The uniformed doorman approached us,
now menacing as a cop on the beat.
Roger and I walked briskly
up Central Park West.
I never did figure out
who that woman was.
James Quentin Devine
REDEEMER & PROVIDER
This is a “play” for two “characters” named REDEEMER & PROVIDER.
Neither is redeemable or provident.
1.
“It’s over, man. Jobs, everything.”
“I’m just, I . . .”
“I don’t even know why we pay taxes anymore.”
“You pay taxes?”
“Well, no. But still—”
“I just need one getaway. One heist.”
“Yes.”
“You think we could pull it off?”
“You’re bringing me into this?”
“I mean — you want brung in?”
“What you got?”
“Well, you seen all these schemes, right, where people get fixed up with a bunch of money because something happens to them, like, on camera?”
“You talking about, like, America’s Funniest Home Videos, or?”
“No! Fuck, no. I mean like, they’re out in public somewhere and somebody gets to harassing them, gives them a hard time. You know, pranksters.”
“I fucking hate pranksters, man.”
“Well what if we pulled a real big prank?”
“What you mean?”
“What if we got over on ‘em all?”
“Can you be any less clear?”
“Check it out — you fake the encounter.”
“Fake what encounter?”
“Like you, right. You’re blind. You’re sympathetic. Somebody beats on you there’s no way you’re not gonna get at least twenty, thirty thousand out of it.”
“Twenty-thirty thousand isn’t doing shit these days.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“We need more.”
“So you’re in?”
“I’m not out.”
“Well, think about it — how can we, what, uh, maximize the uh, the efficacy? The emotional vulnerability . . . How can we go, like, viral?”
“We gotta piss people off man.”
“Go on.”
“Make ‘em real mad. It’s gotta be more’n me bein’ blind.”
“Alright.”
“We gotta tap into real animosities, deep-seated shit, you know what I mean?”
“I think I do. . .”
“So you got all type of shit in society now, right, you got everybody mad at the Boomers, Boomers don’t give a fuck cuz they’re holding all the chips just checked out but you gotta figure they hate the kids cuz god damn look at the kids, and plus, when hasn’t the old always hated the young, you know what I mean? And anyway on top of that you got the gender wars, and all that jailhouse race shit—”
“You’re thinking we make it a clash of civilizations?”
“Gotta be, right? I mean I’ve got a look, I’d say. A strong look.”
“It’s true.”
“Right? So I’m gonna come across, I’d come across a particular way.”
“They’re gonna think some type of way about it.”
“Okay so how do we work ‘em?”
“Like kayfabe the thing?”
“Exactly.”
“Shit. This whole world’s carnivals and casinos.”
“And porno.”
“And porno.”
“So you gone beat or get beat one way or the other.”
[BOTH LAUGH]
2.
“Okay so you’re at the store, right. And you’re — what? You’re working, you’re shopping?”
“I don’t want to be working.”
“Well hell neither of us does, that’s kind of the point of this exercise, dumbass. You’re wanting to cash out and I’m trying to cash out with you.”
“Alright. Eyes on the prize.”
“Right.”
“So I should be shopping.”
“Yeah, at the store. Cuz all anybody knows is stores. We gotta generalize.”
“The General Store.”
“Something like that.”
“Good and generic.”
“Close enough.”
“Close enough to work.”
“I’d say.”
“So I’m at the store shopping, and I’m buying, shit, I don’t know, a can of Pringles and some beef jerky.”
“Like them red Pringles the normal ones or some other shit?”
“Just the reds.”
“They make all type of Pringles now I seen.”
“Yeah at the dollar store the other day I seen some discontinued kind that come in a orange can said something about ‘Mesquite.’”
“Maybe it was mosquito flavored.”
“Boy the way the One World Government wants us to live I wouldn’t be surprised anymore.”
“I tell you what I’ll eat my gun before I eat a bug.”
“Oh I’m sure I’ve eaten bugs before, in my sleep or at restaurants or whatever, just off drinkin’ or dreaming or whatever it is, you know, man, but fuck no I ain’t lettin’ no European Commission tell me what the fuck to eat.”
“We come up off this shit you should get a side of beef, or I think that’s what they call it, like where you get the whole freezer just fulla that meat.”
“I had a neighbor who did that with deer.”
“I had a neighbor they said fucked her dog, or got fucked by it, or him, I guess.”
“I remember you tellin’ me about that.”
3.
“So how you gonna enter the store?”
“You gotta figure I come in making a big working man’s fuss about what a difficult day I’ve had.”
“They don’t need to know what a pampered princess you are.”
“No they don’t.”
“So you walk in and what, you just start cussing up a storm about your nag wife and your seven kids, or what?”
“No, no, we don’t gotta do all that. I just walk like a man’s had a long day of work. Hard work. Machine work.”
“Punching the clock.”
“They still do that?”
“Fuck if I know, man.”
“You still know anybody’s got a job?”
“Hell I don’t even know but I tell you what the other day Denny call’t me up said ‘YOU KNOW WHAT REDEEMER, I’M THINKIN’ BOUT GETTING A JOB.’”
“Denny’s gettin’ a goddamn job?”
“Well, listen — I said ‘Denny you ain’t gettin’ no god-damn job’ Denny says ‘AND YOU KNOW WHAT TYPE OF JOB, REDEEMER?’”
“Shit.”
“I said ‘No Denny, I don’t know.’ He says ‘REDEEMER I’M GONNA BE A MAIL CARRIER.”
“Denny’s gonna be a fuckin’ government man?”
“Just wait — I says ‘Denny go on,’ and he’s ‘REDEEMER YOU WANNA KNOW WHY I’M GONNA BE A MAIL CARRIER?’ and so I’m like ‘Well hell Denny I don’t know that I do but I’m damn sure you’re gonna tell me one way or the other,’ and so Denny says ‘CUZ I BEEN WANTIN’ A FOOT JOB FOR A LONG TIME REDEEMER,’ and then he hung up the damn telephone and I swear to god the whole county had to Of heard him hollerin’ that stupid-assed laugh of his, I never been pranked on the phone so hard before.”
“I fucking hate pranksters.”
“Man come on man that was a pretty good one.”
4.
“Okay so when we’re making the video I should be wearing, what, like nice clothes or like normal clothes or a uniform or what?”
“You gotta figure everybody looks like shit these days, on account of havin’ no jobs.”
“True.”
“So you’d stand out more if we put you in something proper.”
“Like a shirt and tie?”
“No tie. Too much pomposity. No one’s gonna sympathize with a man’s already hanged himself these days.”
“What about a bolo?”
“Like bein’ on the lookout?”
“No like one of them Western ties.”
“I don’t think we should present you as a cattleman if the whole purpose of this exercise is for you to get your shit rocked, you know what I mean.”
“You’re right, I shoulda thought of that.”
“So what’s the most convenient thing you can be if you’re gonna get your ass beat?”
“I don’t wanna look like no pansy.”
“You won’t look like a pansy, you just gotta be sympathetic to the, uh . . .”
“The fans?”
“I suppose that’s what they are, yeah.”
“The marks?”
“I mean, I don’t want to think of them as victims . . .”
“They’re willing participants.”
“Folks do love a spectacle.”
“How about an All Leather Look?”
“I think that’s unnecessary.”
“Could be fun though.”
“There’s a lot of fun a man can have if he lets himself get wandering enough. We need reliable returns. We need you looking overpowered.”
“We gotta get a big man, then.”
“A heavy.”
“A superheavyweight. A giant.”
“We gotta get a real big guy to clean your clock. What are you these days? 140 lbs?”
“119. I keep eating. I don’t know where it goes.”
“I knew I was guessing high I was just trying to make more of a man of you. Whatever. So we play into that willowy shit. We gotta find a real ogre to put a pounding on you.”
“What’s he hitting me for?”
“Being a fag seems too obvious.”
“Gotta be some type of hatred.”
“Something unwarranted.”
5.
“So is this what they’d call a psyop?”
“I’d say so.”
“We’re engineering a reaction.”
“I’m P.T. Barnum.”
“I’m Vince McMahon.”
“You think when they shot at the president it was real?”
“Which time?”
“Any of them.”
“You gotta wonder.”
“I mean I seen footage looked real.”
“We’re about to make footage’ll look real.”
“Here’s hoping.”
“Well hope’s hard of hearing so grab that bitch by the earring tell her ‘GIVE ME MY MONEY!’”
“You just make that shit up?”
“Naw I seen it in a comedy special once.”
“Really?”
“No I just made it up.”
6.
“Okay so figure right we got you in the foreground in like a iPhone portrait mode, cuz it’s gotta look like it was shot casual, like it should cut in at some weird time when things already escalated a bit, tension’s built, you’re mise-en-scene, you know what I’m saying.”
“I think you mean in media res.”
“Whatever, you know what the fuck I mean.”
“I did understand you but you gotta be wary as a pitchman of vernacular jargon. You don’t wanna be showing your ass.”
“Speakin’ of showin’ ass what if our superheavyweight yanks your shirt up over your head a bit, like a hockey kind of thing?”
“If I’m wearing the cardigan that ain’t gonna work.”
“And you’re dead-set on the cardigan.”
“I think the mohair’s gonna look really good under them fluorescents.”
“That’s true.”
“If I gotta get popped I wanna pop you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Of course.”
“Plus if I get color hardway off the punch you gotta figure between the blonde hair and the white sweater it’s gonna look fuckin’ amazing.”
“What type of shirt you gonna wear?”
“Who said I was gonna?”
“Come the fuck on, man, we gotta get on with this. If we don’t do it somebody else is gonna.”
“Boy I hate when people steal my ideas.”
“No shit. So are you doing a T-shirt or a buttondown.”
“Dress shirt. Two buttons deep.”
“Dress shirt? But you’re supposed to be a repairman.”
“You can repair in anything.”
“We gotta sell this shit, though.”
“You think the common viewer knows the difference between a Windsor knot and a fat set of nuts?”
“You got a point.”
“So I’m coming in with the white mohair sweater, white cotton batiste shirt, gonna do lizard on the belt, gold buckle, black jeans.”
“Black jeans.”
“Black jeans, black boots.”
“Lizard boots?”
“I’d do it if I had ‘em but I don’t got ‘em.”
“We could eBay it. Or Etsy.”
“Too much time. Plus the fit could be off. The boots I got, I know how to walk in ‘em.”
“We don’t wanna throw off your gait. Especially if we go multi-cam and pull security footage. And if we bought online it could turn out they was fake anyway, not even real exotics.”
“Embossed leather.”
“Exactly.”
“So I go in with the, uh, the normal leather boots. They got some wear on ‘em so I’ll be convincing as a tradesman.”
“And we get our lunk to, what? Just bop you on the head?”
“Naw, it’s gotta be more than that. It’s gotta come in stages.”
“How do you mean?”
“I should be paying with cash. An honest, working man’s cash.”
“Man nobody’s got any cash these days.”
“Exactly. So here I am, counting it out, right, in front of some cashier, some broccoli-headed kid that you know the audience is banking on — heh, no pun intended — but you gotta figure the audience is thinking ain’t no way that kid can count change back or forward, gotta figure that kid is dumb as fuck, probably barely speaks English and don’t speak nothing else neither, so we’re gonna need a young kid and a big guy.”
“Probably some bystanders, too.”
“Least a couple. Women.”
“Or something like it.”
7.
“So we get ourselves a fat boy with a mean old face and he just smacks them dollars out your hand, change goes flying and everything.”
“Yeah. I got it all folded up real neat on my palm. A five and three singles. Fifty-seven cents.”
“Is that what Pringles and jerky costs these days?”
“I looked it up. Always be prepared. I did a dry run, a trial run, in my mind.”
“Like a astral projection thing?”
“Kind of.”
“Okay and so we got our big boy hittin’ on you, then what?”
“I gotta say, ‘You can’t hit me, I’m blind!’”
“And then he’s gotta just sock the shit out of you.”
“Right.”
“One time, hard in the ear, like we talked about.”
“Yep.”
“Then it’s like, the audience is like, ‘Damn! This man is already blind! How much more can he take?’”
“You got it.”
“So now they’re wondering about your withering senses, and in the meantime we’re thinking the cashier just laughs at you too, right?”
“For sure.”
“Really make it seem like you don’t got a friend in the world. All the odds stacked against you.”
“Yes.”
“And then in the background, we get two girls.”
“Just shocked.”
“Just two shocked girls. And one of ‘em’s got their phone whipped out recording, cuz she can’t believe it, but she’s not gonna do nothin’ about it.”
“She can’t. She couldn’t. She don’t have the strength.”
“Right. Don’t get too worried, don’t get too invested. They’re actors.”
“Sorry, I guess I’m getting into my role.”
“It’s good. It’s good to get into character. Just focus.”
“So the two girls, they got the bull rings and the colored hair and everything.”
“The outfits.”
“Yeah.”
“And we got our teenage jackoff cashier, then some guy looks like he’s five times your size just giving it to you.”
“That’s about right.”
“And who’s filming?”
“Well like I said in comes in media res.”
“You said mise-en-scene.”
“I said a lot of things, now didn’t I?”
8.
“I’m thinking whoever’s behind the camera just keeps going like, ‘COME ON MAN, BE COOL. BE COOL MAN, COME ON.’ That type of thing.”
“See I was thinking it was an ‘AW SHIT. AW FUCK. OH SHIT.’ type of guy.”
“No we need the concerned citizen to seem sympathetic to some extent, like the reason he was filming was to document the injustice you’re facing rather than wanting to exploit you.”
“You think this pays off better if the below-the-line talent is morally valorous?”
“I’m thinking so. The viewer’s eye should be concerned with your well-being.”
“Well you know if we had an ‘OH FUCK LOOKIT THAT’ cameraman we’d be casting me into an environment of all-encompassing hatred, which might evoke a stronger response.”
“The girls in the back don’t hate you.”
“That’s because they don’t know me. They would.”
***
https://jamesquentindevine.substack.com/p/redeemer-and-provider
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Adams Street
Some hobo drunk soiled himself
before passing out in the street.
Mr. Adams came along
and berated the man.
Usually when he confronted people,
they ran away for their own safety.
But this one said nothing.
He had decided to try Mr. Adams
who stomped his head through
the pavement.
The hobo never made a sound,
he became a puddle of mush
in silence.
Mr. Adams did not live on the street.
No one knew where he lived.
But he saw the name on the street sign.
It was him.
Joseph Farley
Laureate Of The Spanish Main
It was open poetry reading night at the Skull and Artichoke, a mangy tavern near the wharf in Marcus Hook in the colony of Pennsylvania. Many unsavory seamen were in there, draining tankards and sipping from cups with little paper umbrellas.
It was nearing intermission. Sigmund Sigmundson was finishing a recitation of his latest epic about catching and eating cod. He was given polite applause when he was done.
By chance two strangers were sharing a table. One was in his forties. In other worlds, an old man. He was large, hairy, and battle scarred. The other gentleman at the table was young, thin, and relatively clean shaven. Both stank like outhouses.
With the poetry on pause, the two fell into polite banter, in between attempts at groping the pock marked ladies serving drinks and whatnot.
The older man introduced himself.
“Aargh. I be pirate. Hurting from arthritis and scurvy from sailing the seven seas. But I am also a poet known in all the ocean lanes and in many lands I raided. I rob, rape, burn, and kill. Pillaging you could say is one of my skills. In my down time as Captain, when I an in my cabin, I compose verses as true to life as all the blood I’ve spilled. I always give the crew of a vessel I encounter a choice. Painful death, or surrender of their ship and booty, plus purchase of a hundred copies of my books, and mandatory attendance at a reading by yours truly. I offer the same terms to any town or city I attack, although I increase the number of copies of my books that are required to be purchased. In this way I have earned dual fame throughout the world as a dreaded cutthroat and as a more dreaded versifier.”
The young man’s eyes brightens. He asked, “Would you be Captain Fergus McDougall, author of “Fourteen Months Of Butchery Under The Southern Cross”?
The captain puffed out his chest.
“I be the same my lad. What be your name and how did you come by my book?”
“My parents named me Hector Johnson, but my friends call me Rutabaga Johnson.”
“What a terrible nickname. If you join my crew I could give you a better one quick.”
“Like what?”
“I’d have to think about it. How is Rutabaga the Bloody, or Scurvy Johnson, or One Eyed Johnson – of course you would have to lose an eye to earn that name.”
“I don’t know,” the young man said. “I am not sure any of those names would suit me. I am not sure I want to be a pirate either. I get seasick easily. I see myself more as a highwayman in the future. Sort of a land pirate.”
“Not a bad trade,” Captain McDougall replied. “I will give you that. Now tell me how you came across my book.”
“One morning I rowed out to a sandbar with a friend to dig for clams. We found a man there buried up to his neck. Crabs had eaten part of his nose and a little from one of his ears when we found him. We chased off the crabs, dug him up, and found he was naked. The only thing on him was your book, hanging from his neck on a rope.”
“Hhm. Where would this sandbar be?”
“Off the coast of Harmer’s Town in the colony of Maryland,” said Hector.
“When abouts did you find him?” the captain asked.
“It was sometime in June, around 1703.”
McDougall nodded.
“Ah, that must have been Edwin Cliveden Watts. He wrote a terrible review of my book in a journal. Tracked him down I did. Gave him the punishment he deserved. Too bad he survived.”
“Not for long,” Hector assured him. “He caught smallpox a few weeks later.”
The captain laughed.
“As the Bard said, all is well that ends well. Now tell me what you thought of my book, assuming you read it.”
“Of course I read it,” said Hector. “I loved it. But you have to understand that the only other books I had read for comparison beforehand were the Bible, a book of sermons, and a book on basic math.”
McDougall scratched he beard.
“I can see why you loved my book. Poetry by a real pirate must have been much more interesting than your previous reading material.”
“You are right Captain McDougall. Nothing I had ever read compared to your blood thirsty and lecherous verses.”
McDougall smiled.
“I write it like it is. No flowery lies. No Greek or Roman gods. No morals getting in the way of what I need to say. Have you read any poems by other writers since then?”
“I have,” Hector told him. “They all seem rather dull after reading your work. The all sounded like ffete upper class school boys.”
“That’s what most of them are. Do you have a favorite poem of mine?”
“The one about the noble woman that you carried off from Peru.”
The captain closed his eyes. A huge grin formed on his lips.
“That was a wild month or so at sea. A series of escapades worth remembering. Want me to sign my book to you?”
“I wish you could,” the youth explained. “The problem is I don’t know have it anymore.”
“What happened to it?”
“The first time I tried being a highwayman it got stolen from. You see I carried it with me everywhere. I chose an itinerant preacher as my first target. I had heard how much he pocketed from passing a collection basket when he was in my town. Turned out he was a bit of a highwayman himself. Quick with pistol and sword. I had to give him everything I had to keep my life. Your book, my purse, my boots, my coat, my pistol, my horse… It took me a long while to make up for my losses.”
The captain shook his head. He let of a sigh.
“It is a sad tale, young Rutabaga. I only hope that rascal of a minister did not burn my book. Ministers tend to do so. It hurts me to the quick. Only so many copies were printed.”
“I share your hope,” Hector aka Rutabaga said. “I had vowed there and then, after my disgrace, to one day track him down, avenge my honor, and reclaim your book.”
The captain slammed a fist on the table.
“To hell with your honor. Honor does not matter much in the real world. Think of it as optional. Focus on getting the book back. No need to kill or be killed if you can avoid it.”
“I will take your advice to heart, Captain. I swear to follow your advice.”
Captain McDougall liked the sound of the lad’s response. He leaned forward.
“Now, here’s a question for you. Do you write any poetry?”
“Sorry, no sir. I have thought about it, but I haven’t picked up a pen. I don’t think my ideas are good enough. Especially after having read your collection.”
The captain gave his table mate a gentle punch in the arm.
“All you need is more life in ya. Then you will have plenty to write. Good or bad it will flow from you. Same as your water does in a privy.”
“Do you really think so?”
Captain McDougall tapped his temple with a finger.
“Hector the Bloody Rudabega, I know so.”
That was all the time they had to chatter before the second part of the evening’s program began.
Midway through the second half of the program, Captain McDougall excused himself. He winked towards Hector of the Unfortunate Nickname, and said, “I need to fill the ocean.”
On his way to find a comfortable wall outside, he signaled to one of his crew who was there listening in awe to a sonnet about growing potatoes. The crew member followed his captain outside.
Banana Charlie was a tall man with a broad chest and muscular arms. He whispered to his captain, “Are we aiming to set sail now?”
McDougall replied in a low voice, “Not yet Banana Charlie. I have a task for you.”
“What is it?”
Captain McDougall rested his arm around Banana Charlie’s shoulders. He whispered in his ear, “After this reading is over, I want you to follow the lad that has been sitting at my table. When you have a chance to get the jump on him, clunk him on the head. Once he is out cold, gag him, tie him up, carry him to the dinghy, and wait for me.”
“Did he offend you?” asked Banana Charlie. “What do you want us to do to him?”
“Calm down Banana. He has done nothing bad. Even praised my poetry. Read one of my books he did. Been a highwayman too, or tried to be. So, I offered him a chance to join the crew. Turned me down. Well, he is going to join anyway. For his own good.”
“Ya think he’ll make a good pirate?”
“Maybe,” said Captain McDougall. “I can’t be sure of that. But I know he’ll never become a poet worth his salt if he stays on land. There might be hope for him if he turns pirate, even of that happens under threat of death.”
“What if he still refuses to be part of your crew?”
“Hah,” scoffed the captain. “He will won’t say no. I’ll ply him with rum and books of my poetry. That will change his perspective of life for the better.”
Banana Charlie agreed, “You do know how to lead wayward youths farther astray.”
The captain chuckled. “You could say it is one of my talents. I believe in this fellow. He’ll come around to our way of thinking. When he does, he’ll become someone I can talk to during those long nights at sea. He read my poems, under no threat of death. And he liked them. God damn it. He liked them. It will all work out. Wait and see.”
Maria Barnes
Words of Hate
The same blades, the same words
repeat themselves
in the cellar which our relentless ghosts
like to visit. And blood is welded
to our spectral presence:
between us, ours, mine.
Do you remember
how you found my neck in the darkness
and drew a line and another and another
until there was nothing left
but words of hate?
jms xuange
The Body
It was your first time coming so
close upon the dead
her body bobbing breasts up
on the slickened surface of the river
tongue over-swollen
eyes all agog
genuinely surprised and
ever so touched that you’d gone all that way just to see
her—
squeezing hard on the hand you ducked
between your legs
rocking and rising from off
the steamed planking
your lip
bitten badly
LindaAnn LoSchiavo
Just Desserts
Preparing this headstrong whipped dessert, she thought about the year he nicknamed it “anniversary tart,” and how — when it didn’t come out right— his temper distilled there till the dining room turned to ice and the chair legs left black-blue marks. How his fury bloomed in her sleep like toxins that blocked the sun.
These scenes worked the muscle memory in her hands as she punched down the dough, then argued it into the deep pan. Two hours of heat forced the crust to play a protective role for the tender filling, which slowly released its sweetness. Later, while slicing it, the crimson of his manly parts flashed angrily as if caught in the act. His tenderized flesh tasted savory. Methodical chewing increased the atmospheric pressure. And her saliva was like a settlement of snow, tamping down the rough patches of a long road.
Guy Cramer
October
Odysseus slaughters over
100 Penelope suitors
to defend her honor
I suffer a plastic broom handle to the eye
confronting Ed Hardy wearing douche
who tells you nice ass
Never again will we unbox
Goddess gowns at Spirit Halloween
Desmond Blume
Get On It, Comrades 02
in the hotel in Santa Cruz de Tenerife
she tells me I have the profile of Stalin
when I’m laying on my back sleeping
just a few hours after
I took my hardly elected dick
stuck it in the slot of democracy
in the dark in the middle of the night
with the curtains drawn
with my hand over the mouth
of justice and without a word said
as I flipped her over onto her stomach
pushed her head into the pillow
so she was only allowed to breath
with a struggle
with a good rationing of air
together we started to slowly build
a country with a giant dick
for the people of course
under her blindfolded eyes
I kissed her lips with a caterpillar
mustache
as she weighed pleasure and pain
on the scales
with the kinks of socialism
later in the afternoon we laugh
and drive north to Kuntsevo Dacha
where I crown her
comrade slut numero uno
official whore of the state
