HORN BLOWIN' BLUES

I aimed my octaves
into the nightscape
toward her house
where she scuttled away
and shuttered up
against my hearty serenado.

Fluttery arpeggios
wasted away into
thinning (and chilling)
climate like so many
sour little flatulets
despite elicitation's into
her brittle indifference.

"I need soothings of Mahler!"
she said into her hot-line
to the police precinct,
"Mozartian whinnies
and baroque bum blasts
do nothing for my libido--
come immediately!"


BINGE FUCKIN'

Drunks passed out all over the place,
those still on their feet walk into walls,
and the intellectuals sit around the room
screaming politics, religion, and bitching.

Pissing and moaning about
shit being everywhere
in churches, museums,
insurance offices,
hospitals.

Nothing makes sense except
unloading my nuts into the abyss,
pumping myself into a love mode,
an orgasm machine.

I look into the half-closed eyes
of my latest True Love,
fucking me on auto pilot,
and her moans are more eloquent
than conversations in calm moments,
the triumph of lust
over mindless hedonism.

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