Howls in the deep night 
where owls and vixen ply 
the headstones with hoots 
and hushed gobblin whispers 
and I in necrophiliac lust 
with rigid rectitude in hand 
stand alive and a-wank amid 
this dessicated multitude 
in this lust-lorne necropolis 
as a choir of night creatures 
so balefully sing below 
the cool white moon. 

Now vindictions dire 
can reach them not! 
O, those once dear-- 
true love and old friend 
betrayed me and died violent-- 
their enmeshed tissues and 
mingled gore and semen and 
exploded bowells at roadside 
and who will never hear 
refractions of old themes. 

The damp night breeze 
will nevermore chill me 
nor the candescent eyes of 
insomniacal woodland creatures 
chill my Druidic cantations 
nor stop the rhythmic floggings 
of passion spewing forth 
upon this my holy ground.
        

Village Idiot

Many are the years 
I've been away from 
the old apple farm 

the women are all sitting 
around bowls of snapbeans 
in the cool of evening Junes 

the big moon holding it steady 
up there and the riverboats 
doing their far-away mourns 

warts and freckles and stolen 
moments of jerking off were the 
only things to guarantee 

that we young boys would 
either go insanely compleat 
or grow up a dull normal 

but the mystery of it all 
is this: when did the horse apples 
lose the good smell-- 

and when was the day the windows 
of the old train depot got boarded up 
and the rail tracks all went to rust-- 

and when was it that everybody went away 
to follow their far away dreams while 
I'm still here dreaming up at the clouds

The Spoor of Tarts

What brought it to this-- 
is it just that Shit Happens, 
a short tug of laissez-passer, 
or was it the aroma of meat swamp 
snapping my chain--sundering 
all caution and dread of disease 
and proffered sniffing into a 
magic symphony of gagging smell? 

Yes, I was poised in a plunge stance 
over the primal crevasse, at the 
rim of the abyss of no return. 

To quote Henry Miller, 
"My hard-on was like a 
bar of lead with wings!" 

And I-- drunk on the 
irrestoppability of raging lust 
and a-wallow in foetor-- became 
enmeshed into a coupling 
of the organic and the chemical; 
smells of tacky perfume, sweat, 
stale cigarettes, ripe cunt-- 
we exploded into spasmodic squirtings, pounding out 
a dual cadenza-- obliterating 
the portent of a sated morning 
yet to come.

Night Train Express

Long low mourns 
of a train whistle 
far off and away 
from Port St. Jake 
night echoes 
burrowing into 
further dark 
dank river valleys 
a far piece down 
the track and 
switchin yards 
not yet known 
or seen outside 
mind pictures 
fueled up by 
wonderworkin 
wine.