three outrageous poems

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these are some poems from my past that my friend tess tickle asked me about. thanks tess and enjoy.

Three Outrageous Poem (I wrote when I was young)

Blood on the Bathroom Tiles

A stream of slaters

Slid out of her anus

As she lay unconscious

Bleeding upon the bathroom tiles.

He squatted, shitting, watching

From the toilet seat

Blowing smoke from his Havana –

Thick smoke that disconcerted them

And they fled in all directions

Unaware of the source of irritation.

He ashed before their trails

Grey ash that soaked up the floor’s moisture

Turning it to a grey mud

Which contrasted red of the blood

Which trickled along the tiles

Like a red river to the drain.

He placed a plug from the side of the bath

Over one of the slaters and stubbed

Many others with the tip of his cigar

Watching the slaters

Ignoring the blood that oozed

From within her watermelon head.

Eventually he tired of this and flushed

Dressed, and slipped out into the night

Wondering when she would be found

Wondering if they would blame him –

The dead slaters were evidence of his presence

Finally, he wondered why he’d fucked a woman

With slaters up her arse.

 

What the Last Testemeant

A group of Roman guards

Rolling Jesus’ testes freshly cut

While the poor bastard still breathed

To decide who’d chuck the spear to finish him off.

Judas was playing his twenty ninth game of pinball

He still hadn’t won a replay

So, he threw the last coin down a wishing well

And hanged himself in shame.

A complex argument

Continued beneath the cross

Jesus didn’t know much Latin

And couldn’t pontificate.

He just hung from his nails, balless,

Crying, “Forgive them Father,

They’re just dumb grunts

Who don’t know dice aren’t oval.”

Which the cunning Jewish interpreter

Translated as: “Go did your dicks in paint

Flop them onto a canvas

And flog it off as art.”

Which immediately angered the Roman

With shortest dong, feeling he had less to express

Into snatching up the spear

And thrusting it Christward.

The Romanic races

Have long been renowned

For their fiery tempers.

 

 

 

 

Sex Drive

I wanna live in a dead-end street

Called The Orifice

That comes off a main road

Called Sex Drive.

But I live in Meredith Street

Named after an English poet and sounds like

Merry death. Camus wrote A Happy Death so

Merry must be a block further down than Happy.

Or is it a Mere Death

Merely the final point

Along the Cul de Sac of life

No longer wondering

Who am I? What am I doing here?

And where am I going?

You are a mere vehicle

Cruising down Sex Drive

Looking for The Orifice

Hanging a right into

A likely looking dead end

That turns out to be

Mere Death.

 

 

 

 


Submitted: September 20, 2020

© Copyright 2023 Craig Davison. All rights reserved.

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Mike S.

Three sick-yet-excellent poems, Craig

Mon, September 21st, 2020 9:46pm

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Thanks Mike. I had almost forgotten them, but Tess reminded me. Hmm. I'm sure my style has changed radically.

Mon, September 21st, 2020 5:33pm

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