Best Genitals Poems
In Iceland there’s a Willy museum
It’s not huge like an old Colosseum
Filled with all types of willies
It would give me the sillies
But people pay lots of Kroner to see um!
Inspired by a comment Tom Cunnigham made on my Aurora Borealis poem
The museum has many exhibits of the genitals of animals!
1/8/20
They gave our children mind altering
poisonous drugs to eat,
and we said thank you.
They gave our children excessive violence
and sadistic sex films to see,
and we said thank you.
They performed mutilating surgery
on our children’s' genitals, and we said
thank you.
They turned public education into
propaganda and indoctrination,
they blasphemed God and Faith,
they took away our free speech,
took away our free and fair elections,
murdered children about to be born,
telling us to bend over again
this next election --
thank you
thank you
thank you
thank you
thank you
thank you.........................................
My very best friend is a lesbian,
not bisexual, she is not at all attracted to men.
There is nothing butch about her, she is absolutely stunning.
When I look at her I often wish that I was a lesbian,
but our friendship is built on the foundation,
of us always verbally abusing each other more times than none.
When we first met, picking her up was my intention,
before I discovered she was a lesbian.
"Listen pretty boy," she said to me,
"I think you're a great guy but not at all for me.
I know that you'll find someone one day
who will make you very happy,
but this is never going to happen sweetie. It's not you, it's me."
"Whoa! Hold your horses there Annie Oakley,
did you just "It's not you, it's me," to me?!
Let me tell you something my little curious honey,
I created "It's not you, it's me," so please,
don't even try to feed me lies about being a lesbian to me.
You wouldn't believe how many times,
women feed me that tired old "I'm a lesbian" lie,
I average about a dozen of those women every week at the very least,
just be honest with me, just answer me truthfully,
what did I do wrong, why am I not your kind of guy?"
She gave me a pity kiss, and then told me this,
"I'm not attracted to you because your genitals are on the outside,
I Am Not Attracted To Men! I AM A Lesbian!
IT REALLY ISN'T YOU, IT'S I!..
"Well, can I call you," I asked, "and keep giving it a shot?"
Anguished, she grabbed me by my collar, her temper raging hot,
then smiled and winked at me and said, "Sure, why not."
.. and ever since then we have been the best of friends,
verbally abusing the hell out of each other over and over again,
but whenever a crisis in my life does occur,
I honestly don't know what I would do without her.
I'll be talking more about my lesbian friend,
every so often, now and again.
not in the heart again
for chrissakes it's like Swiss cheese
decoffinated please I'm a yet ambulatory zombie
off his medication as usual
alternatives to logic 101 with Prof. Spike
far too much work for a dead end
saw his only ally the embalmers needle
left his innards spilled in the sand
history in its entirety mocked his comprehension
had the nation in tears and then nausea
several dueling scars graced his genitals
if our perceptions already lie
why shouldn't we
I had to laugh
it was all I could do to keep from smiling
even after a thousand years of AI research
the electronic government was helpless
my Microsoft forehead radiator
absolutely charmingly couldn't get any focus
but the Royal Society of Blind Philosophers
helped me with my little problem
a miracle of recipe repair
because our endorphin soup is a bit thin
the quicksilver cooks ate first and fell asleep
having thrown away their brains long before
in the field kitchen of the gods
after the air raid sirens of postmodernity
can there be too much truth
for an army of blood diamond merchants
now a bit more about para electrics
if only I were at liberty to discuss it
yes imprecision can carry signal
but the place is crawling with dilettantes
wearing their secret butt plugs
it's a guessing game as you can see
petitioning for a visually diagrammatic idiom
although it's a devilish seesaw but let us restart
The Oblivion Ride was the big theme park attraction
my extended family was in the sideshow
justifiably taken for a pack of fools
then the sun went down and never came up again
and we stepped into the stone circle
chanting evidence is preferable
to the moonlit tombstone
good luck with that in your airwaves
broadcast on radio Sarajevo
signal drifting drifting drifting
with minds great and small
and smaller and smaller
the Internet is the yearned for Messiah
there it's done and out and not to be unseen
you wrestle with it while I proceed
dashing among startled commuters
mesmerizing the fact finding committee
their dictatorship of x-ray leeches
tossed him out of several monasteries
apparently the production quotas were relaxed
in a kaleidoscope of normalcy
the style crazed mannerist martinets
howdy do nail in my shoe
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
The very softest forms
Of martial arts
Tai chi
It’s very similar to a dance.
You’re a dancer who dodges.
And aikido
for when things get a little rougher.
These seek to do no harm to a predator
To disarm with the least amount of force. This woman does aspire
Chi point strikes are more dangerous to your opponent, and fellow being.
If you choose to learn them, okay. That’s your choice.
You are always in the process of gathering tools.
It sickens me to hear of advice
Of gouging with keys
And other flimsy
means.
How are you supposed to take care of yourself?
Or worse, seeking to do the most harm with the least amount of effort
S. I. N. G.
That is not a type of “singing” I’d EVER endorse.
It boils my blood. That stupid coincidence-
That is laziness
And inability to feel empathy
Plain and simple.
“Miss Congeniality”
Sandra Bullock
She punches and beats up that man that did NOTHING.
There’s nothing congenial
about targeting someone’s genitals.
And then teased him
And everyone LAUGHED.
Who’s the sociopath now?
Or the SADIST???
If a man punched a woman anywhere
And then taunted her
You would be baying for his blood.
Like lionesses who wolf down dogs cowering
You are not that different.
You’re the same species.
Sheesh.
T’will be his death of this he's sure
But for this sin there is no cure
All John did was to stand on guard
Now his family name forever marred.
As a child trained in the Protestant faith
Too late he had now seen his wraith
Converted to Catholicism and fervent too
Knowing never more to see morning dew
He trembled, weak and so close to death
Afraid now to take his known last breath
His bowels loose his spirit lost
Forehead bowed, fingers crossed.
He could almost feel the horse and rope
But knowing he now had no hope
Confessed he did as Guido Fawkes
These step were to be the last he walks
His genitals cut and then to be roasted
Bowels and heart, next to be toasted
‘John’ then ‘Guido’ now known as Guy
Did not want this way to die
Through accident or was it his plan
He climbed the ladder with his hangman
Did he jump or was it a mistake
As he fell and his own neck did break
The legacy for this man Guy
An effigy to be strung up high
Set on fire every November fifth
With explosive fireworks lit forthwith
No child he left to bear his name
But Guy Fawkes still hangs onto fame
To blow King James of Scotland high
For this act of treason thirteen did die
© GG 3/12/2013
Contest Entry: Happy Holiday
Wraith …own ghost.
(for Jon Accomando)
mine was the last generation to be spanked. sensuous and real, w/ corporal punishment— at
least you felt something.
sadly, it too has been corrupted.
in the new violence no one raises a hand— eyebrows and whispers, an errant son reclaimed?
“fr yr own good. for your own.”
i am somebody’s son.
no.
i am in the living room, barely. the remote in johnny’s hand, an extension? new american
phallus, contoured to fit your palm.
push the button. change the channel. roll over and fall asleep. it’s all been said, done.
it’s the weight of history that crushes us. maybe a.d.d. will cure us of our inertia. maybe.
maybe is democracy in ashes.
no.
the cat is sleeping, quietly by the fire. i remember envying him once; a quiet life, pins
and needles— i was born for.
the cat is neutered. he spends more time licking himself now, and he’s grown fat.
we’re not so different really.
i am willing the embers from the fire in his direction.
i asked johnny once, “if you could make the world anew, shinny and perfect...”
his face lights up in anticipation. a million abstractions, he’s been waiting all his life.
“what would you keep the same?”
he doesn’t know.
“Television. I would keep Television.”
my face is gently bashed in.
oh, mild america...
one day, when the oil runs out and the apartment buildings reach the sky things will
change, they have to.
where there was silence—whispers. a fast talker now a lisper. whisper down the cities.
shudder down the buildings.
man’s love, man’s work- is made worthless. we’ve been pissing and moaning so long that
it’s coming out screams and yawns.
no.
blessed! we are blessed!
w/ suffering and desire.
w/ big macs and rubbing thighs.
w/ quiet eyes and shaky hands.
w/ heartache and lone.
w/ genitals in my coffee.
w/ 10,000 thoughts in my pockets.
the simulacra of the ‘good life’ is a pacifier. i’ve had enough.
no.
no. no. no. no. no.
in the living room i am empowered. i have willed an ember from the fire onto the cat.
kindly he remains asleep.
i told johnny “the cat is on fire.”
johnny nodded.
the cat continued to burn.
Need a fender? A replacement hood?
J.D. Body Parts won't do you any good.
See, here you'll find ankles and feet in aisle 3.
Torsos on aisle end-caps, for all to see.
Heads and genitals in the refrigerated section
in the rear. This week we have a special sale
if you need an ear.
Legs in the toy aisle, aisle 6, stacked neatly
next to the Legos and the pick up sticks.
If it's merely a scalp for which you do shop,
you can check out the backroom, where we
there chop. Fingers in the snack aisle, aisle
number five. And they're so fresh, you'd swear
they're still live.
If you need some help to find a part, just ask
the manager, he'll fill your cart.
And you'll find he's quite a charmer.
Our store manager, Jefferey Dahmer!
A cunning linguist is my Romeo,
whose tongue has tasted ev’ry inch of me
ravenously from head to toe and—Oh!
in between—that I’m wet with ecstasy!
With lips on breasts, he kisses my firm nipples
first, then bites and nibbles on them like candy;
now wet with excitement, my genitals
beg for the strokes of his tongue to eat me.
Supine, I spread wide for him as his hands
prime my vagina—first the labials—
then my fluttering vulva—which expands
like a bloom for all of my man’s essentials.
Then, his lusty tongue slays my ********!—
so I then beg for the cock of my Horace.
If I could lick my genitals
Just like my neighbours pet
I’d film it with my camera
And I’d put it on the net
I’d soon be rich and famous
Like a real life ***** star
I’d buy a great big mansion
And a big expensive car
A swimming pool, Jacuzzi
Naked women by the score
A wall hung with old masters
Persian rugs upon the floor
But that’s really just a dream
And I’d be happy I suppose
If I could lose my belly
And could see my bloody toes
I am woman …
WOMAN
Of Congo,
Chewed,
Spat out,
And bestowed with straw basket
To fetch water.
You set upon us
Wild dogs,
Stretching our legs wide,
Ripping out our genitals and dignity
To nurse your children’s
Craving.
‘fore you design gods;
Ones who create dolts,
Small-minded folks,
And feast on minerals –
Congo was a lady
And I … I am
WOMAN,
Strong black woman.
I bought some views
On black market;
They are rare commodities,
Sat down with glass of nsamba
on the rocks
And seriously contemplate …
It is hard to buy
Black market stuff;
We are set up
To think
East is inferior to west,
Barring them Europeans
Who broke their necks
To dwell in Canaan.
One thing is for sure,
They alleged a better name
And substitute
The ones we were given;
Those with implications.
Oh, what things we see
When we start looking
From our own eyes.
I am WOMAN …
Woman alone
And taken against my desire,
Ravished by the corporations;
The gods who create your children
I am WOMAN,
Woman from Congo.
He
platonic as can be
only love
in his mind
enters passion's
room, unknowing of the
lust
contained in whom
was tempted by the door
as shoulders stroke
lightly
She
restrained by civility
now freed by passion
has indecent thoughts
gushing, body parts
flaring, her wet
tongue pouring
she stalks towards him
on a prowl for her meal
skin dragged by
desire
pulling her
inch by inch
He
gradually feels
tender hands
seductively slithering
from his back
by his arm
then his chest
to his abs
and his waist
he moans
in sheer pleasure
enticed
he turns to her
weak and limp
yet firmly erect
She
inhales his violent kiss
melts from
searching fingers seeking
sex
heart beating out
of her breast
pants desperately for
air
never so eager is she
to be violated
head to toe
He and she
remove frantically their
sinful clothes
distressed as
milliseconds go by
untouched
uncared
unspoiled
genitals await fulfillment
of purpose
passion
grows more intense
and
at last
They
Chants o' thy escapin' requiem,
Chairs on t'se broken doors dust kiss'th,
Paint on t'se walls, incomplete rest'th,
Nails o' mine, thou out pull'th,
Stabs throat, the silence o' tis,
Red hot metal in my genitals,
Frozen blood smells serene,
Push'th th'm limits beyond, thou,
Bleedin' nostrils, when t'at acid crawls inside my eyes, tearin' my eyelids...
Serene art o' thee, where shalt thou hang'th? My love?
Pins h've o' the ground lie,
Pick th'm up, batter on my temple, try...
Doll o' thee, beauty o' tis, who its lips kiss'th? My love?
Stopped heart o' mine,
Who pull'th? My love?
Body o' mine, dust an' tear piled,
Who love make'th? My love?
Wet gasoline in my mouth, flame between thy thighs, who light'th? My love?
Melancholic story o' ours, who read'th? My love?
Impeccable words o' th's scene, who make'th? My love?
behold now everything on this earth;
the fields with abundance of grain,
palm-grove harvests rich and fruitful,
the forests that separate kingdoms and the fires that scorch them;
the brickwork of ancestries and the towers that reach our gods.
behold these crop-fields that we call life and death,
grown on the back of a sludge-like entity
sowed, and heaped, in granaries of self-doubt;
collected by children's dirty hands;
bronze-sickles, charcoal-eyes;
while the storms unwrap in the south...
gales have swept these homes and huts of clay,
the dog-faced pazuzu gnarls at the moon, as inimical as it is revered;
a mother's love for the murderous son is as complex
as the children's dependence on these fearsome steppes.
behold now everything on this earth;
the countenance of the origin-beast-mother carved in the mountains of the north
and the efflux of her genitals streaming to the south of the marshes,
into that great ocean whose shores we know only by myth
and whose waters is the abode of the primordial one,
whom hurls the long-spear of flood and storm
deep into the sides of these lands - for these lands are hers:
when all comes about, has not the lands risen strongly
from her bottomless and abysmal womb?
was not the pleasure that shook the members of the old, old gods
into ejaculation, indeed, the motion of her scaled loins?
is she not the temple to which all sacrifices are offered, all libations put forth:
is she not the shrine; the death-black ziqqurat; the lighthouse emitting darkness?
is she not the stele inscribed with all words of grace,
and the eloquence of our beautiful poets?
over the lapse of a thousand millenia,
she has been constricting the gods of the heavens
in a strong leather noose,
f o r i s n o t v o i d o r i g i n a l t o a l l ;
c h a o s , d i s c o r d , o r i g i n a l t o o r d e r ?
The Bad Priest
In Lyons (I think it was Easter, 1438),
I was a priest and somehow can recall
the dim church, the heavy clouds of frankincense
and the knights and the peasants lined up for communion.
I chanted the magic words
and did the magic gestures but
instead of the wine becoming the blood
of our Blessed Lord,
it changed into piss.
I was not ready for this.
Inside the chalice,
the reflection
of my own most hideous face -
I poured my face onto the floor and
a thousand rats writhing in a sea of worms
destroyed my last pretense of piety.
The congregation – the whores no less than
the assassins – knew that I was one of them
and could no longer hide the fact.
The stained glass windows crackled and shattered,
the church crumpled into rubble;
and we all shrieked
as the earth quaked
and God was deaf:
to the sobs of the amputees.
For the unforgivable crime of sacrilege
the ecclesiastical tribunal interrogated me
under the direction of the Bishop.
Those Dominican friars, those Domine Canes
(bloodhounds of the Lord), figured I'd sold
my soul to the adversary and when they
put me on the rack and hung me up backwards
and hammered each ankle and elbow in turn,
I saw that they must be right,
for they showed such tender concern
for the state of my soul.
I confessed but still had to be tortured again,
in order to confirm the first one.
The Dominicans wanted to burn my genitals
to get to the names of family members
who might be party to this conspiracy,
but in his mercy the Bishop forbade them.
I had to prepare myself for being burned at the stake:
There would be no merciful strangling instead.
I could pray for the grace of God,
but I knew I wouldn’t get it.
I could not even look forward to oblivion
as I regarded that yellow shirt
printed with the Devil's signs
that I'd have to wear on that
morning of shame and buckets of ****.
My friends will ask for my forgiveness
as they set the straw afire.
Will I be a Christian then?