Neon Compline

(part one)

My dick so tall

Don Quixote fightin’ it

My dick so long

David Foster writin’ it

My dick swing low

Don Corleone scared of it

My dick swing high

Chabon goin to tear it up

My dick so excellent

Lancelot knightin it

My dick a winnin’ prize

Shoot Shirley Jackson in the eyes

(part two)

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins

Know what’ll get you twerkin’

Yeah, Franzen he correctin

But ain’t no disrespectin

Cuz Franzen, he wanna get he hand in

Capote, he wanna smoke more than peyote

Atwood, shit girl, you know I got wood

What rhymes with orange?

HUNG LARGE

Sit down Cormac McCarthy

Cause my dick like a horsey

James Joyce followin’ Ulysses

Yeah you ain’t seen these testes

By my calculation

Jane don’t need no Persuasion

Dickens man you got patience

But I got these Great Expectations

Brontë ladies all on the moor

Gather round for this grand tour

You all huntin this sperm whale

I’ll call all y’all ISHMAEL

(part three)

My dick got bite, my dick got bark

My dick got science friction like Arthur C. Clarke

My dick got  wick, my dick ignite

My dick got flight like Richard Wright

My dick badda-bow, my dick badda- bing

My dick long and scary like Stephen King

My dick the secret that deliver

So follow Joe Conrad up dat river

All y’all
pissing in my alley

shouting to your friends

dick out, Blackhawks boxers on

cell phone in one hand

I envy you

You’re a scrub

You’re a loser

But still you can piss standing up

in the alley

behind the utility pole

or walking backwards

and spraying down the pavement

in ziggy-zaggy lines

baseball hat facing the right way for once

yelling

‘Where the girls at’

shouting

‘I want some nachos’

I envy you

I envy you

walking backwards

shouting

and pissing standing up.

If this alley, this life, were a marathon

you’d piss in plain sight

While I’d roam in vain to find some low brush

If this were a cemetery

I’d be crouching behind a headstone

envying you;

And you’d be peeing with the angels

upright, forthright, shouting out

the horn parts to

‘These Boots Were Made For Walkin’

Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Excuse me. Hey excuse me. Excuse me. Hey. Hey.

You fucking bitch.

The next time I see you
on the Western Avenue bus
I swear I’m gonna show you my dick.
Hey, I paid my fare.
Signed,
A.

Carl Linnaeus in his bower
categorizing species
never thought about the scientist
who would order feces

Did Carl Linnaeus, classicist,
dreaming of Kingdom, Phylum, Class,
consider the work to document
The Hierarchies of The Ass?

Could it be mud, or perhaps cement?
Dinosaur crap is fossilized
Jellyfish poop lights up the sea
Ant shit is likely colonized

So if I seem preoccupied
Welcome to the new taxonomy.

They said to write what you know.
So I wrote a bunch of shit.
But if you were to write who you blow-
There’d be no end to it.

This is no lack of wit,
And it’s not an untrained ear.
You’re a sanctimonious tit;
So shove it up your rear.

I remember reading an interview with the Belle & Sebastians, and the journalist quizzed one of the Stuarts or Stevie about the song Seymour Stein. The journalist wanted to know how such a pretty song was inspired by an old school record man. The Belle replied: “It’s not about the music business! It’s a love song about a beautiful girl.”