Posted: May 9, 2013 in Fiction, Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

Drip Technique

Home alone.
I stand naked
in front of the mirror
playing with myself
as only an only child
can do,
moving it back and forth
stroking every so
in the dead heat
of summer.
It is hard to reach
Much imagination
and effort.
When I finally do,
I am more relieved that
it is over,
then satisfied.
I turn and walk
toward the bathroom –
already half
limp –
dripping on the floor
as I go.
And I think of Jackson Pollack,
his drip technique
over the canvas.
Wonder if the world
would call what I am doing
if it walked in on me
right now.

Grand, like the Piano

We should start a press,
he says,
bring about the

He is 42,
lives in his mother’s

I insulate duct
and jerk off
to free porn
in the evenings.

We could put out an online mag
a month,
he tells me,
really saturate the market,
that would give ‘em

I stroke his mother’s cat
from nape to tail,
ask if there is anymore

Then I go to the laundry room
and sniff his mother’s panties
like the beer drunk
short on rent
public transit dependent
I am.

Age of Austerity

She offered her services
outside the No Frills
along Montreal Street
in Kingston,
and the irony
was not lost upon

for her
a cart costs just a quarter
and she charged
a whole five dollars,
and being the economist
I was
I decided on
the cart.

something inside
that didn’t promise
to swallow.

To the Postmaster-General

I was standing on your head today
and I didn’t feel any taller,
there are very few advantages to living
on the second floor,
but feeling taller is one;
I never knew what they meant –
those Mother’s Against
Everything –
when they said they felt cheated,
it used to make me laugh,
but now I know.
I am very upset.
I have not been able to jack off
for a week.
Even the toaster oven
is starting to look

Yours Truly

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