BoySlut

Stink Bomb Of Love

 

The  used bookstore tended to fuck

over  anyone wanting to trade old

books in for something new to them

 

I  found a John Fante & a Steinbeck,

the  midget clerk there scared me,

after 20 minutes ransacking my 4

boxes of trade-ins, she bellowed

 

My  name, “That’s $7, I know you,

you’re that nasty poet from Hotel

Wisconsin” she said smiling cutely

 

I  just stared at her, her arms & legs

were  short & stubby & the rest like

it  had been compressed somehow

 

She  watched me like a mongoose

ready for a cobra, I gave her $6

for  the balance of my book purchases

 

As I left she stripped off her Levis &

panties & said, “Here motherfucker,

now  you have something to write about”

 

She  flung her undies like Thor’s hammer,

they  covered my face like a giant squid

from  hell, I screamed, “I just saw a

midget’s pussy & I’m going blind.”

 

 

 

Last Comanchero Of Dildo  Island

 

Juanito was listening to The Rolling Stones song Star Fucker, it  sounded like Johnny B. Goode with some curse words thrown in. He had John  Fucking Wayne on the boob tube killing Indians and Mexicans from a flaming wagon  traveling hell bent for leather across Monument Valley. I thought oh shit, here  it comes, Juanito got out his Chicago typewriter case, unpacked his Thompson  submachine gun and laid four hand grenades on the coffee table. Every time The  Duke killed a Comanchero, he played like he was obliterating his cowboy ass,  complete with mouth made burp gun sound effects and grenades with the pin left  in, rolled under the television. “Did I ever tell you that I’m a direct  descendant of Quanah Parker, the last wild half Comanche?”

 

“Only more times than I count,” I replied.

 

“Well fuck you then, I won’t waste my breath on a common asshole  New Mexican.”  He fired up a joint  and it started popping and fire was falling all over his shirt.

 

“Did  you forget to take out the seeds and stems?”

 

“That’s boogers and cunt hairs from a nun, I threw in for flavor,”  he explained. “Did you go out with that Canadian lady again? The one that says  ‘Give me a dozen beers’ instead of a twelve pack. Her eyes are deeper than a  blue jay fart. I wish she had a twin sister,” Juanito said.

 

“Claudia is a combination of an angel, a Tasmanian she devil in the  sack, and a glamorous old time Hollywood movie star. Do you feel me?”

 

“Yea, it’s all good, you lucky motherfucker. You can step in a pile  of dog shit up to your ankle and still come out smelling like a petunia.” 

 

I  took several tokes and held them in. “You want to hear my latest poem?” Juanito  nodded in assent.

 

Your  Bootie’s Now A Coochie

 

Oh  funky freaky Frankenstino

another writer wannabeno

a  stinky nobody nigarette

sucking dick on a cigarette

 

Time  exposes fakes and frauds

go  back down on your greasy broad

spewing vain and volatile words

jealousy and breathing slimy turds

 

Just  another snake in the grass

Big  Willy is gonna fuck yo ass

being his jail bitch was unacceptable

he  passed you around for a sperm receptacle.

 

“Is  this about the fucker that pissed you off, writing about your wife and kid on  the web and he’d never really written jackshit of his own?”

 

I  nodded. “It got personal, when he brought family into the equation. He reminds  me of a fiddle player I used to know, named Ollie. I started out liking him, but  he thought he was hot shit and kept running off at the mouth. One night I told  Ollie to shut his pie hole. He had this long goatee and I grabbed it and hit him  in the schnozzola. He fell straight back and farted, once like a foghorn and  again like a dying bullfrog. I looked in my fist and I was holding what seemed  like a handful of cunt hair ripped off a bushy snatch. I wasn’t sure what to do  with it, so I stuffed it in his mouth and went back in the bar to shoot some  nine ball. His band was looking for him to play another set of music. Ollie  finally staggered back inside, looking a little ragged.”

 

“You’re a crazy son of a bitch, but you know that already. I bet  they don’t realize that factoid.”

 

“I  just hope I never run into either punkass or I may just be forced to do  something they won’t appreciate. Are we going to score that fucking knock your  dick in the dirt weed or whistle Dixie?”

 

“Vamanos, cabron.”

 

We  got in his lime green Ford F-100 pickup with the souped up engine, in case of  trouble and went to our rendezvous. The dealer had two body guards, but we were  loaded for bear and very cautious. He said it was Acapulco Gold, but that was  salesman bullshit most of the time used to boost the price. I held a zip lock  plastic sandwich bag of herb up to the light. It appeared to be mostly tops  without much leafy shake. The tops were much more potent, but a lot of stems  were left after stripping them down. I opened the bag and plunged my nose and  mouth in, it smelled like a freshly cleaned horse barn with a pungent sweet  twist of tree sap. I passed the baggie to Juanito, the aromatic odor was a  delight to both our highly trained nostrils. He picked out one of the tightly  golden compacted buds, it was woven through with light green leaves traced with  reddish fiber veins. The bud was gummy to the touch, Juanito smiled and handed  it to me, my fingers detected the sticky sensation. I squeezed the bud and a  golden fully mature seed rolled out, none of those little green-white birdseeds.  I flipped out some Zig-Zags and twisted up a pinner doobie. It wouldn’t do to  let the dealer know our enthusiasm over this ganja. Juan fired a wooden kitchen  match and let the sulpher burn off, before adding flame to the smoke. The pot  was pure fucking dynamite. Kilos were $80, the dude from Mexico gave us a deal  because we bought ten, $750.

 

I  knew for a fact the potent marijuana was coming in by box car from El Paso,  Texas, smuggled by wetbacks. It was grown in the Sierra Madre Mountains in  Sinaloa, Mexico on what farmers called their tomato plantations. It was a sweet  deal and I had plenty of friends for breaking down and distributing my large  purchases into a big money making operation. Juanito wasn’t happy with his share  of the profits, even though we were fifty/fifty partners, he was always a greedy  motherfucker. He started cutting his weed with catnip, the elusive elixir for  felines. We didn’t get any complaints at first, but it just didn’t feel right to  me. Slowly I started ending our business venture together. His customers just  weren’t getting as good a buzz as mine.

 

Finally I had enough. “I’m going to Isla Mujeres off the Mexican  Yucatan Peninsula and let things cool down.”

 

“I’m  headed north to Dildo Island, Newfoundland. I’m going to get me an Eskimo woman  and live in an igloo,” Juanito said.

 

I  thought yea right, he’s full of shit. He went north before I went south and he  called me. “I’ve got me a nice lady, her name is Lucille, just like B.B. King’s  guitar. Here talk to her.” He put her on the line, but neither of us had much to  say.

 

The day before I was to split, Lucille called and told me Juanito  had been eaten by a Polar bear.