Fat Bottomed Girls

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Fat Bottomed Girls

I almost forgot the night I offered
my cock to the two big women
in a Camaro, feather joint clips

Jordaches, feathered hair. I put it
in the window after
I wheelied my Huffy against

their back bumper.
One of them wrestled me down,
sucked me off with the smell

of baby powder, the hum of neon,
the 7-11 parking lot.
I slept awhile beside the road

smelling my fingers, thinking
of those big big bodies
and how so much flesh

made me feel against
the vinyl backseat. My thighs
filled with skin, jabbing the seats

before I could come.
I wanna go back to cold
Montreaux, the place

where Queen wrote the song.
I see lines of coke on top
of the amps. I see me

curled across stenciled flight cases
and the cold winds of Lake Geneva,
just an A and a D chord

at sundown, and the sound
of my own voice, over and over again.

Heavy Metal Parking Lot

Today, this year, I grant
those hot, thick-legged
girls from preteen summers

the grand entrance
they deserve. On Main Street,
their shiny purple shorts strained

over needful pigling
impairments. Clean shorts.
Clean and clean, rock girls

brush against my
rhizomatous boombox
of precum, they scuttle

feathered hair, it still wisps
over long yellow lights.
My purple helmet still shrinks

in tight mesh collars.
Bud ponies galloped
in my button-bottomed pants.

Cold ones, like fresh carnations.
Flip-capped for each beauty’s hair.

My Russian Dance
after William Carlos Williams

If I, when I live alone
or my roommate naps away
or my mom is on the phone,
should jerk off to the TV,
the sound muted lightly,

and leave viscous watery
come there and moisten
my hairy arms and fingers
in uneven rows,
and then play electric guitar,
loud and fast and horrible,

along to some rock ‘n roll
records, cold wood on naked
thighs, as if to announce that
I had gotten off by myself,
as I had done 100
times in a row before,

that it was the way I prefer,
then who dares run in
my shaking room, turn down
the volume, stare
at me, someone so in tune
with liquid and song?

The Peter Brady Come Shot Episode

"Today I am A Freshman," Episode #75

Boys rub up against knobby sheets
everywhere and look
at the oldest blonde sister, everybody

wants to put it to her as she joins
the exclusive club
on the terrace, and I wait with my hand

to time it, I wait with my hand — But No! Peter
comes along —
he’s been saving it up, like I said,

for at least a thousand years and — always, as I say
to my students, always
refer in the present tense! — Peter

yelps, rubs the two wires together, people, he
zaps them and yelps
in the background as the viscous brown juice

comes out — Quantum mutatis! Look how much has changed! —
a torrent of yeoman
extradition, streaming allegoric magma

and The Westdale Boosters soak it in, yes,
and Marcia, God
bless her, laughs through it all like a porn ingénue —

solid colors stained, eyes wiped off — and Peter
still holds those
two wires and says, Look! My volcano is working!