|
Dennis Mahagin
Summer 2009
Shortest Tale Of An Unrequited Crush
Ever To Make An Amtrak Porter Blush
Pleasure and pain,
two trains
coupling… She called
out his name,
over the shriek
of steel wheels
braking... Then she got
off.
Grown Man, Crying
In the claw foot
tub running over,
his purple corona bobs
like a bell-shaped buoy
in the white-capped
suds,
he hums and scrubs
peppermint soap into
tingling scalp, sheepishly smiling,
watching her do up the lacy black
garter snaps
with one stiletto heel hitched high
on the toilet tank top, and a long strand
of raven hair balanced on the bridge
of her nose. When she blows
the bang, exasperated, across
her brow, saying "What did I tell you
about putting the seat down, Calvin?"
--he thrashes in the water
like an alligator on a goose neck,
the shampoo running slowly down
into his brown eyes held wide open
to the sight of her sex now
straddling
the still-running tub faucet a few
steaming feet from his face.
And how can we begrudge
this man his tears, as he rises
slowly out of the water
to the beckoning crook
of her wet forefinger for
yet another lesson?
Dennis Mahagin is a writer and musician from the Pacific Northwest.
His poetry collection, entitled "Grand Mal," is now available at Amazon
Dot Com's Kindle Store -- with brio, and a bargain basement price tag. Blog: Four Hour Hard On
2006
Twisted Couplets From
The Valentine's Share Slide Show
Tuesday night and Brie plays Low Rider
bongo beat on the tight black belly of Chad
with his head in her lap and bare feet splayed
on the teal shag of my sunken living room,
where we gather
to dig "American Idol",
scarf take out noodles, nachos laced
with veiny purple thai stick buds and
pestle-pounded Xanax tabs on top.
***
Brie is a Triple-X internet model, chatters
amiably and incessantly-- even jokes around
that the Blue Man-looking photographers
and webmasters at work cajole her:
"Smile Brie, and say yourself child"...
before every money shot--to
which she always attempts
squeaky wannabe witty
rejoinder:
"yourself child hee hee"...
but they
cut her off
every time
at that point.
Brooding Dan
in the caftan corner
sucks grape Slurpee
while nursing black eye
with horseradish, Spanish
Fly and cold cuts so
badly missing Brie
who used to be
with him
until he
tested positive;
for Hepatitis C, and
now he's on
a database, shit-
faced fresh out of it;
while old
hanging Chad
is the lucky guy.
On the screen there's an Amazon blonde
who's dead ringer for Courtney Love,
and Chad is like:
"Oh my god she's got it all... big tits
porcine cheeks and major league
caterwaul to boot!"
Brie has admitted to me privately
in the past that she comes really hard
just as soon as her hot darting tongue
touches heart hump twitch of
significant other cock tip
pumping pre cum...
Me?... I've got an inventory
of Ninja grips I use
just for jacking-- my
record is eight times
in one day, I'm not lying and
neither
am I gay but
Brie still calls me her
"bestest bestest bud"
anyway-- which does get old,
but I never try to stop her.
***
Brie goes:
"You guys you guys you
guys you guys!... you know that
Filter song called 'Hey Man Nice Shot'
is actually about Kurt and Court makin'
cute little Francis Bacon right?"
"Frances Bacon?" mutters Danny, "You are so
sadly mistaken... Sir Bacon was famous
Victorian astronomer, slut brain-- besides
that song refers to Cobain blowing his head off."
Chad chimes:
"Nope. You're both wrong. The song
is about Huey Long robbing a bank on T.V.
and when he's cornered by cops the cracker
blows his brains out with a Glock Nine Milly!"
"Oh oh oh oh oh," Brie goes, "I know
I know! He wanted bank booty for
sex change operation! I remember
the cameras were all over everything."
"No Brie," I tell her gently. "You're thinking
of the movie "Dog Day Afternoon." The guy
on the bank cameras was a politician, but not
Huey Long. He didn't need the money but did
want the whole world to watch him off his self."
"And Courtney's kid is called Francis
Bean baby," Chad adds, thumb-rubbing
Brie's stiff tittie buds as he blows some
cool air on her peach-fuzzed ear lobes.
***
Now there's a spot-cheeked skinny Hindi girl
on the screen singing "Shock The Monkey"
so badly off key it actually sounds kind of
atonal and avant garde good.
"Ooooooh, oooooh," goes Brie, "that is so
Apu!!... Right?"
Dan smolders:
"You mean Snafu, don't you Sue? Snapper Snaf.
Candid cam gaff goo? Snakes, Pennywhistles
and Date Rape Cocktails!"
"That's so whacked," Chad fires back. "Whiner would
maybe like another shiner?"
Brie goes: "Shhhhhhhhh....."
***
It's zero hour
on the "Idol"-- the moment
forty-odd million losers like us are
glued to their T.V's for every week:
A kid who looks like Lumpy from
"Leave It To Beaver" stares imploringly
into the almond eyes of Paula Abdul--
like sex slave getting it up for Mistress.
Lumpy just sang
a Tony Bennett tune
and not half badly but also
not as good as he
thinks either;
Simon Cowell is about to deliver cream pie
coup de gras right on the slick-pink cheeky
blind side-- and all I can think about are
crock pots on stove tops--with burners
gone berserk behind heavy load of
au gratin potatoes and leftover lasagna.
I keep hearing a sound:
far off tree limbs imploding in an ice storm,
while faint grease fire stench licks at clavicle
and my fingerprints are suddenly seared
to slate-black half moons like time lapse
orchid blight blotches on Discovery Channel.
I can't bring myself to watch Lumpy's demise;
I'm out of there-- to go count my cutlery, and
squee gee the toaster oven window.
***
By the time I get back from the kitchen,
the new medical mystery/malady sleuth
show on Fox is in full swing:
They are showing
us viewers
what a fatal
gastro-intestinal
hemorrhage looks like
from the wide red angle
of a trolling colonoscope,
and for a few hushed seconds
everything is totally copacetic
in the T.V. room again.
IN A GREEN DREAM OF GREGORY CORSO
(c) 2007, by Dennis Mahagin
he wrestled Andy
Kaufman in salamander long johns
for the back seat by the Porta
Potty of a Greyhound Bus,
terrarium sunlight pouring
through the panes, ‘till Kaufman
cracked his knuckles again like
Rahkmaninov, and
exclaimed:
"Oh ho-ho!-- you know I so
prefer the drivers who
point out all the sights like
Alcatraz and Crater Lake with
a palpable ooze of enthusiasm
on the mike, even if they have to
sideswipe a gat damn ammonium
nitrate truck cooking rumble fumes
broadside near Brookings. It’s way
worth the mess I must surely
confess!"
”Yeah, so?” Corso
retorted. "Avaunt the vaunted
condoms in crackerjack dispensers
at Monterey Zoo & Brasserie!... Toucans
drunk on the Steinbeck stench, and such a
scintillating cesspool! Rainbow-red macaques,
broke-back dolphins shooting bluegrass
through their blow holes!”
Then Gregory
on all fours
--winking at yours
truly stowed away
up in the baggage
rack—
gently tapped
the teal Roman numeral
face on his Day Glo deep
sea diver’s wristwatch:
“This ain’t over,
between me
and you, not by
a Viridian-hued
Mile!”
I awoke
to the sound of
Kaufman’s triumphant
snore--my gills filled
with Envy
as I swore at the
gas-green digits of my
bedside clock said
3 A.M.
on the dot, and
late for work again.
Mick Jagger Could Kick My Ass
Old enough
to be my pop;
his fat lip stiffens
as I call him a Fop.
I take a swing
as best I can
but this motherfucker
wrote "Street Fightin' Man"...
Sixty years
of stone-clean living
are all about this
thrashing he's giving,
his veiny claw
clamped tight
on my craw,
my enlarged heart
quivers-- I yell for my Ma!...
What the hell
have I gone and done?
This rock and roll ruckus
ain't the least bit fun
and I doubt
old Keith
could give him
much of a run
either.
Mick sings me a verse
of "Jumping Jack Flash"
and bitch slaps me some more
as he bats his eyelash,
yeah,
Mick Jagger can
definitely kick
my ass.
|
