EIGHTH HOOKER POEM (soulsex)

here is my work, a back door into humanity a secret passage to a walk-in library of congress, how many positions can I love you in let me count the ways the words the long rows of kamasutrapedias spiralling out of my head as I lower it around yours and collect evidence of body parts warming each other, dances on your skin that create corresponding dances in your bloodstream the necromancy of mindful affection the craftmanship of really meaning it, like a master’s degree in harnessing your inner analgesics like ballet without the aching feet, here is a tantric massage like a back door into your forgotten sorrows a recipe for spiritual success, first we take your fantasies those hidden from embarrassing othereyes, then we go deeper into the fantasies you’ve hidden from yourself and then finally we find that space where your wants are too you to take form just blood flowing endlessly facelessly shapelessly through arteries made of what, and here I make your cake here I take your alls and whip them up into spirals of pleasure, my big trick my grand finale is the tears, the laughter, the spasm, the whateverthefuck comes out with the sperm this little white blotch of soul nutrition so exponentially potent when mixed with everything else, ah the body the dish that feeds itself by expelling its own memories, this is a little miracle when I see the juices flowing from your everywhere and I see how it all comes together in grateful eyes shining with the light of some still-glowing heart inside you that I must have somehow managed to weld back together, well fuck I guess I’m some kind of accidental wizard

Reklamer

SEVENTH HOOKER POEM (money I love you)

there are two parts of a man that never lie, his dick and his wallet, one limp or stiff to tell me how attractive I am and the other open or closed to show me how worthwhile he finds my company. somebody once told me that money is the opposite of love, well what a cynical take on love, that it doesn’t feed you or clothe you or give you a place to stay, just leaves you out in the cold to fend for yourself and beats you like an angry heart when you try to sneak in the back door, well here is my back door my personal take on your heart, or failing that your ass (always have a plan b handy I say, don’t waste your life doing nothing in place of what could have been if only it had been no don’t let the holes in your life grow to man-sized in the hope that someone will fill them swiss cheese is not the smell of success,) here is the way I take you in and go to work on your skin sending little beginnings through your nerves to the happy endings in your brain, kickstarting my pheromones with yours the endless feedback loop of here I am, and the final honesty your disgust at the mere thought of not paying me for access to my throbbing hearth, not giving me something anything in return for making you the most important man in the world for half an hour, money the savior that stops your (childish yes logical yes practical yes) worries about how you can ever repay me, well now you can, buy now and get a free sense of worldonasilverplatter for that specialsomeone, a cheat code to escape the eternal three, money not even a thing in itself the paper the metal discs only symbols a carefully crafted set of evidences of impossible-to-copy, here are two oxen a flat screen tv a month’s rent or simply an eloquent thank you in my hand little rectangles of translated everything little bits of forever safe, or at least as safe as can be and who can ask for more than can be, money the plan b when the plan a of mutual infatuationadmiration isn’t available, when we never seem to have extra time at the same time, when the perfect love wasn’t what we happened to stumble upon well nothing’s free if it isn’t given to us, but here’s a safety net an everpresent secure base, money the torch passed on in life’s conga line of caring stripped of the tiring algebra of gratitude, here is a rectangular promise kept the moment it’s made oh money I love you

SIXTH HOOKER POEM (mourning lullaby)

I.

my first memory is fictional an image developed in the darkroom of meditation to satisfy the need for a first memory, a cardboard mother sitting with her cardboard child on her lap, no colors only white surface and scanty suggestion of faces light pencil sketches of eyes nose mouth, this scene depicts my first experience of unconditional love, the guru’s assumption of universality that reminds me so of exactly my mother a figure that will topple over if I blow on it, my breath held tightly against my spine do not disturb happiness it’s so fragile do not disturb your mother while she sits here trying to love you to tolerate the aspects of you that are missing. a wild child appears! from a dream of a child with needs like the ones she remembers when she goes into a quiet room in her brain and watches a movie of a mother sitting with her child on her lap (back then not yet grandmother no confusing doubling no surplus memories), a mother looking down at me like a child begging for love, how do I invent a feeling how do I erase emptiness, to look into a set of eyes like you’re seeing something on the other side, like looking into a two-way mirror and knowing that someone is standing behind your other self watching you, to gaze so firmly that the other starts to doubt her own invisibility

II.

here is my insistence on existence here is a woman like a red light in the dark like the nightlight that keeps the city from sleeping, the obstinacy of the sprouting weed, leave me on the forest floor like hansel & gretel let me solve my own puzzle by eating every breadcrumb I’ve dropped behind me and not until I’ve done that will I stop killing myself with lack of memories and lack of happinesses and lack of possibilities of reconciliation, I count my duvet like a sheep, one soft warmth one soft warmth until I drown in the cloud that reflects itself in the sea from which it took off, how do I break myself like a wave, how do I reach out and grab my fellow human’s heart-shaped balls two spheres of unlived life like two golfballs tossed at the body’s wall, how do I hold the man the woman in my arms without looking ahead to disaster the moment when one of us clutches too tight, feelings that can’t be passed on only demanded in uncomprehending arm-pulls love! love! love! the imperative of why aren’t you smiling why aren’t you melting into my arms like I’ve melted into the arms of others before you, and my mother how she haunts me how she appears in all the neatly crackling ideologists of media research authority, why are you shaming yourself why are you shaming yourself endless attempts at upbringing, I’m just trying to help you become the person you should have been, I’m just trying to erase the pain for you erase the emptiness that stands here looking like a woman, and put myself in itstead like when a woman has a child to live on after death like when the tumor has spread out into the whole skull and the surgeons cut off the patient’s head to cure him like when the serial killer kills his victims to make more room for himself in the world,

III.

here is the biggest lack of space I’ve ever seen so many mothers breaking their backs carrying around the concept of baby the desirability of men, don’t disturb society while it sits here pulling your teeth from your mouth like some kind of fast-forwarded aging process, maybe you just need to have some kids that you can sit and stare at until they feel welcome, maybe you just need a man to take charge of you a job to pull your soul out like teeth from your mouth like milk from the crying breast, maybe you just need to be restarted retold a new childhood freshly developed, sit your shameslit down right here and listen to the therapist’s lulling tales, it all started with a piece of desire a glowing apple in the night, see how it jumps up and sits on the branch that pulls itself towards an ever-shrinking trunk it almost looks like an aging process if it weren’t for the fading wrinkles, a woman that gathers herself around herself preparing for lonely death the failed attempts at stretching her hands out like branches and letting apples grow and fall into other women’s shirts, look, when we rewind you become a martyr dying in the moment you clutch the mechanism you came from a kind of icarus of self-pity, yes this moment right now came first and then youth folded into childhood like a flower closing up shop for the night, like a chick dying in its nest abandoned by the life-saving fluff of the brooding ass, it’s never too late to have another unhappy childhood, it’s never too late to be disgusted by the unwashable filth of your violations, say after me I’m ruined for life write it on the blackboard a hundred times that’s how you raise a person to feel worthy that’s how you beat loss out of a woman with an obligatory welfare system marketed as care an endless cycle of somebodycares not about you but hey it’s still caring right? right? right! it’s never too late to regret what can’t be redone, eve eating the apple and with her mouth full of unconditional sensory perception handing it to adam with a smile like a nightlight, here in the man’s mouth is maybe another dead end here is maybe an illusion as powerfully glowing as the hearth in his chest maybe a new world,

IV.

how do I tell the difference between hell and the promised land in any other way than by following the trail of decreasing pain and fading demands for emotion, give me anything that lights up the dark a warm cock in the vacuum of the crotch a banknote mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, not much is much more than nothing, give me anything but the two empty eyes chanting down at me trying to love we only want to help you why are you hitting yourself why are you hitting yourself BE HAPPY OR WE’LL FUCK YOU UP take my hand TRUST US OR WE’LL PUT YOU IN JAIL love should be a matter of course NO ARMS NO CAKE no reflection no help from here, goodnight little girl goodnight fair prince goodnight goodnight and sleep tight

FIFTH HOOKER POEM (what is the sound of one hand reaching out)

every time I try to name my losses the sound is drowned out by the pecking window rain of a thousand chattering feminists, will you please shut the fuck up so I can hear my own heartbeat and reach carefully into my deficiencies, please step aside so I can see what’s hiding at the ends of the roads I have to choose between, and MOVE your fat averagefaces melting with decades of no pain hundreds of proud rejections sitting on a throne of satiated childhood, move your gazes out of my way so I can contemplate the thousand outstretched arms before me to choose the pair that won’t drag me screaming into neverreceding night, grandmother what long arms you have, all the better to liberate you with my child, grandmother what little understanding you have, all the better to build a society with out of you and three thousand other confiscated bodies, empathy halts progress with its shrill screaming ants blocking our freeway to freedom, money’s comforting arms and feeding hands must be hidden away in the treasure chests of happy hearts as if someone might steal it from us through our cheating husbands, maybe you little hooker maybe precisely your starving heart on a street corner will pirate the man’s resources, better to hasten your disaster throw you away like a broken barbie doll (which by the way is totally unrealistic real women don’t look like that real hearts don’t beat that fast), better to sacrifice you to the garbage men than risk being infected with unhappy childhood or developing countries, here is a cry for help like a circumcised vocal cord in the silence, here are all the wrong problems and all the wrong solutions in a jumble of humorblack puzzle pieces, a woman that forms a different image than the one on the box, I don’t want to hear your whining about minimum wage inflexible job market depression anxiety carpal tunnel syndrome jacks-in-offices like avenging angels with unexplained grudges guarding the gates of heaven from, for example, people like little you, don’t give me your problems if they don’t solve mine, have a problem with the solution you’ve chosen for yourself lose your respect for yourself for your expertise in your own life become the story we tell with the full force of fully functioning lungs or GTFO in the rain with your red umbrella

FOURTH HOOKER POEM (fuck me in the now)

sex is a shortcut, my icebreaker of melting pulse. sex is my only synthetic alternative to trust, the slow, that grows like moss across imperceptible years and boring days. I’m a deer frozen in your headlights, your dating profile’s personality picasso. so many likes and dislikes, so much to memorize and store in my heart like trinkets of information on love’s dusty commode. I’m a deer that has just stepped out of the bushes and is considering whether or not to eat from your hand. if you seek me, I can’t tell you if either of us has the patience for domestication, friendship, and only then romance. if you seek me, you can find me in the future or at 555-FUCKMEINTHENOW.

THIRD HOOKER POEM (mirror mirror in the dark)

closet closet in the closet the brothel is the closet I hide my narnia in. this is only an innuendo if you want it to be whatever floats your boat honey. life is an innuendo if you want it to be, sultry or cool or both, the temperature doesn’t matter global warming starts with cold winters, my hands are cold but I warm them on you and put your freezing hands on me mutually melting poles like a gasoline-fuelled roadtrip deep into the heart of indifference to the wider context, I release all my toxic gasses like stars like an ink cloud behind my red sports car with a thousand arms flailing around it nothing will go untouched nobody isolated and nobody soiled by my waste but whatever authority is chasing me at the moment, this is how I choose my battles my toilets to vomit the past into, you say that my firm eyes on the one standing in front of me are a sign of egotism, you say I should let go of the two hands to feel the seven billion around my heart, but great officer, who art in the one-way mirror on the wall, you whose face adorns my retina’s oldest image of my mother, your warmth is not the one I feel against my chest when I open the car door that sluices humanity disinfected into my body, your warmth is the blow torch that burns open wounds like an experiment an attempt to cleanse away all personality until only the dream of the cold marble woman is left and then we can start all over again with pygmalion at the brothel, oh how history repeats itself like a centrifuge of careful cleansing followed by mutual defilement you decide the program I’m just the temperature you set the machine to I’m just a mirror to your light, all meanings all body temperatures can and will be collected into this my secret cave with connective tissue like big sheets hung to dry and then tied together and carefully lowered from society’s window, this is not a party this is not an invitation to play, this is the hostage situation I was born into, a society that flexes its thousand muscles around me in a collective sigh of involuntary power, welcome to the world here is the maze you must fight your way through to find the cheese and eat it and then throw it up because mice actually can’t tolerate large amounts of cheese and actually aren’t that interested in cheese much rather cucumber and oatmeal and little slices of paté on toast, but a society cannot be built on bread alone my gut feelings not typical not old enough for the story that must be maintained to avoid losing the thread like a rope through the labyrinth streched out behind me like a tail just in case the destination is worse than the journey and I have to find my way back to the hole I crawled out of, this is only an innuendo if you want it to be however your boat floats on the sea of mutual indifference, this is the fort I build when I’m surrounded on all sides by family the black sheep that counts people to stay awake at night, I have a black belt in deselection, oh great prison guard, who art in the dusk juggling the people’s wills, if you want to free me from the prison of the mind then magic mark my words like studying for an exam like a trauma you have to work your way through like the snow storm that never stops and never moves, learn the difference between the passion whose gaze burns holes in my face and the passion who lowers lids and holds my heart gently and endlessly carefully until I myself withdraw with a blissfully resigning sigh, all sky scrapers all churches are made of the empty shells from closets that somebodies once flexed their autonomous muscles in like jaws like levator exercises, now towers of Babylon heavenward corals thousands of lifestyle skeletons with a cheese like a Christmas star on top, mirror mirror in my arms look at me now, forget tradition’s firm grip on your heart like forcemeat to feed to the holidays, seize puberty’s black magic moment, turn from the presents predestined for you and see that here is a closet here is a body here is a gate to walk through without opening it, here is passage transit to what you always imagined was behind the last door in the Christmas calendar behind your mother when she hid her hands behind her back at the beginning of December and at night right before you fell asleep behind the closet’s secret door

SECOND HOOKER POEM (make me come true)

warning hooker is slippery when wet gliding on to the next man so elegantly that you barely even realize you’ve been left, her warmth still lingering in your bloodstream like your warmth lingers in hers as foreplay benifiting the next guy so he doesn’t have to work so hard to make her smooth and limber and then easily dig into the kiss between her open thighs, a word of advice a word of warning dear gentlemen, never go to the brothel looking for love, yes there’s come in commitment but there’s no commitment in come, no way to tie the loose woman down (only physically anyway) that game of domination never digging deeper than the dick never reaching the heart to make it hearth, this infatuation is a game we play to infuse reality with the full force of a loosened network of muscles oh I’d give my permanent partnership if I could but then I’d lose every other man in the world and how does one man compensate for all the world, I’ve tried to tie my love to one person but it just keeps slipping out from under our tightly clasping arms and reaching all the other men I’ve yet to fuck, the invincible bigness of my affection and that feeling of home when finally giving in to endless travel, juices nurturing each other, the length of your snake is my health measure an apple a day keeps god away, faces and names gliding past me as I drink the sweet saliva of forgetful pleasure, yes I’ll forget your name forget your face but your kisses will stay on my skin like little invisible electrical tattoos, I’ll keep with me the universal parts of you those parts that I’ll see over and over again, soft skin and hard cock and wet mouth and eyes relaxing into arousal, conditioning myself this way to love mankind and my body because mankind and my body are the only two constants, your style of dress and your line of work is of no import, but I’ll import that body anytime honey that body that you reveal when you take off all your belongings and stand human and breathing in front of me, ready to be taken, into kisses and caresses and lines like dance patterns painted on the air, this I take from you and give back to you in my simple female form, exponentially growing affection climaxing in sincere orgasm, but not a promise to care what your political stance and your hobbies and your children’s names are, so dear gentlemen know that my affection is real right here right now but your past and your future I will not take, what’s yours is irreperably yours, take my pulsating body and hide its image deep in your unknowing bloodstream like charging your battery a storage of caress for difficult times, take my clasping hands and my gasping mouth and put them in the back of your mind as mood music to be played throughout the coming workday, take my kisses and caresses and then make like a penguin and slide