Left-nut-groin on fire and “the thing” is getting bigger
Pissin’ me off,
Pissin’ Mr. Happy off!
Don’t tell him it’s no big deal;
He’s so not into spermatocele,
Play with it, play The Cramps, whatever
Don’t this call for morphine, Doc
To cut the phantom nerve pain out?
Lower gut above the cock
Morphine now, don’t fuckin’ wait, I have the Symphony at eight!
Mozart Symphony #39
Note: Like a lot of my poems, this comes straight out of real life: On Jan 6th, I was in the E. R. at Virginia Mason for severe pain caused an infected spermatocele, a tasty little nugget near my left nut. What can I say, my life is an open book — Like yours isn’t, right?— But I was at the symphony by eight, yes I was; & btw, all subject matter is appropriate for poetry, sz me.
Will you smile real pretty when I pull the trigger?
Will you let a squadron of dragonflies carry you
By your nipples and hair into a green forgetful sky
By your toes, your nose, the white fuzz on your ears?
You will forget the red and blue years
Sailing a typhoon of moonlight, money and mercy
Mercy for queers, money for roses, so many
You can give one to every hobo-drunk in the world
And ten for me, your god-forsaken rebel.
If I whirl a twister of wishes and dreams
To right the wrongs we have brought upon our children
All the animals and insects gone to extinction
If I gather the lint from our toes, sox, bras, underwear
Into a sudden mighty wind and knock the leaders
Kings and tycoons off their murderous feet for good
To say there is something very different from
What they promise and what we get, my dear
Will you smile, will you smile, will you smile real pretty?
The future never arrives on time
When it does
It’s not what I expect:
A walk in the park,
A punk grrrl
In pink Mohawk
Lifts her green skirt
Shows me some blue bush…
Runs off laughing, I laugh too.
I guess she wanted to shock me
Give me a thrill, I don’t know.
I walk on
To a dumbstruck bar and grill
Forcing back a confusion
I grin and think
It’s a fucked up world, but fun still
Rayn Roberts 2016
for Jon Wesick
Not to fly a zeppelin over anyone
But Jimmy plays the amped page
With a sandpaper tongue
And Iggy after Morrison
On stage with song and cock
Pops off like no one,
Jazz never whipped it out
Never needed to
Can flash a crowd with his
Ray-gun-shock-talk ‘til they shout
“Squeeze my lemon out
‘Til the juice runs down my leg.”
Or some such squeal.
Ask Robert Johnson why
It’s ecstasy all the same, so
On the purely academic guess
Are the two family, I say
In weird and obvious ways
“Yes.” and more will be revealed.
Rayn Roberts Dec. 2016
Who came first, Iggy or the Pop?
The Humiliation of Work by Jimmy Jazz
What has Jimmy Jazz ever done for me? Nothin’. I hardly understand him half the time, but then I hardly understand my fucking self half the time. The times I do get Jimmy is liberating though ’cause if he can say the shit he says the way he says it, I can say anything. Besides, there’s a little punk in all of us.
Rock on Bro!