MILF Sonnet 5
Do not infringe upon her hot Joan of Arc
fetish, mimetic fisherman—your namesake
ghastly on the gentle flagstaff. A shrewd
witness testifies against your fidelity,
the blenders, libertine mainframes. Weatherman
Ted needs his whiskers, after all. Henchmen
debase pinwheels, hornets philander
the redhead. This ethanol thermostat
tells us the math was forewarned.
She puts kid cinnamon in her libations,
binomial friend of her gathering
antipodes. Homeward, she authors
a neckline from her downbeat tit,
canted voltage seeping out of it.
MILF Sonnet 6
MILF Sonnet 6
Hie, our husky butterfly vilifies the antiphonal
yokel for his use of phrase—”the other
pouty bitch.” Shit, idiot! Such idle, hateful
stagecraft. Unworldly islands of Italian cinema,
soggy like deaf ornithology. We await a candlestick
with wings. Shy lady in liturgy wields the motor
of salad polygamy—fuck the typewriter. Coitus,
dowry. Her pithy flirtation reviled by the laminated
fire, she turns to Aristotle, contaminated, determined
to become unviolated. She froths at the joint, peers into
his unilateral Floridian harem meetinghouse. Once
fetching, this hagfish defecates amorously—a deed
she vowed to redraw in the mimeograph railway.
Unfit, the townsfolk drunkenly turn to vapor.
He crackled through a caustic summer as sacrificial
custodian, forbidden to shit in The Tower—unlike
Ronny (no, fuck you, Ronny)—spackled a new
basilica on the colloidal backs of the skewbald
swamp monsters. He built aliphatic flower petals
from the children’s darling piggishness. When millennials
missed the toilet, he was the one cleaning it, rubbing
his nipples with mop strings. The pavilion riddled
with ape kip flotillas, his idiocy dying in the Anglican
fanfare, he moneyhooned insolently with his minions.
There was a hallway outside the math building.
He put his snake in the flood and cleared it
like a volcano full of glaciers. The phenomenon
was sandpaper to the ears of the giddy marigolds,
for they knew that The Planetary Vibrator would come
again. He doesn’t even look at the moon
girl anymore. One morning, on the cardiac bicycle,
he got flippant with the mum candelabra, sneezed
a fireball toward its navelwort. Forced to vacate
the sunless cage of amphibian lockers, unsteady,
and weary, he reinvented the delirious, lifted
his industrial basin, transformed a lifetime
of papers and receipts into subhuman regionalism.
Doomed as an unsaintly horsewoman. His relegation
eerie—his vegetables desecrated and cocoonery
on autopilot—he frayed a straw bayonet
as his fetid teat was gnawed away.
TUTU BROTHERHOOD OF A POSITIVE YANKEE HYMEN FETISH
O, they celebrate! A game of bareknuckle backstroke
with unknowing gremlins, Vikings in their idiot khakis.
A groggy asterisk edges silky over the stockbrokers’
digits. These heathens are sexual honkies, sterling guys.
They slow down, knightlike in the gallows. The whippoorwills
are landholders, fledgling dragons at that one party
where brotherhood’s so drunk—dongs laconic
as if withdrawing on a flat, starless sea. They drive
their car like a boat, discarding all the pesto
before Mom and Dad undo cunnilingus. Collision hinted
between frying pan and weaponless dawn—the winded
coalition stabs westward, eating lunch in the highlands.
Free underarms for those who brave the monsoon,
an allowance of salmon and miscarriage. In the playhouse,
everyone is diagnosed with the doomsday parasite, a little warlock
defrauding rats of their housewifery. The plateau
unpaved, wheat sandwiches eaten, we roam glacially, the River
Jordan the enemy. The tension—woman shampooing on our tufaceous
bed. This necessitates handshake, a firewall of gratitude
behind which the necrophile interrogates his undergarments.
Our yeoman is armed and culturally nonadaptive, whether or not
unfrocked as capitalist sinkhole. A limited wet loofah, he glides.
DAMN VAN OR HEATHEN JESUS
Either way, we were exactly the same person—
wideawake Aztecs schooled in voodoo tactics,
UCLA dropouts, a couple of decorticated
Mr. Universes undercooked and sensitive
under pink shells. We were bookworms
in tuxedos, smoking two packs a day,
working at McDonald’s with dumb bravado.
Our dandruff collected on The Hallowed
Vulva of Havenhurst after the hoof earthquakes
razed the Astrodome. We daydreamed new ways
to boast about metasyntax in the downtrodden
factories, our black leather jackets sweating
in the membrane. After watching the same
four movies over and over, still young
and goofy, we made a pact: solo mastectomies.
We worship the same bovine holograms,
the fattest peanuts in the utopia. The yellowish
light gradually became an institution, orphaned
itself to white on the side of the air mattress.
He couldn’t leave Arabia in that underwear.
I got dehydrated playing the harpsichord
and out with the confessions. ONE: the tyrannosaurus
wools itself into silk cocoon. TWO: metamorphosis
from drunkard to ombudsman is not only frowned upon,
but outright fratricide. THREE: that pantywaist
could never behave his dandyism away, coddled
as he was in that African foxhole. That rich kid
had it easy! Beekeeping mastermind, overlord
of the widescreen minions—he brawled with phenomenal
grownups, tattooed his glabrous heel, cursed the Fates,
and manned the fry station.
— Kevin Walter
These poems are part of a project where I create perfect anagrams of the poems found in James Franco’s Directing Herbert White (Graywolf Press, 2014).
Originally from Quincy, MA, Kevin Walter lives in Brooklyn, NY and is a graduate of the MFA program at The New School. With Francesco Grisanzio, he’s the co-founder and co-editor of BORT Quarterly. His writing has previously appeared in Forklift, Ohio, Sixth Finch, Everyday Genius, Souvenir, Big Bell, The Flexist, and the Greying Ghost Press Pamphlet Series.
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