DYKE DUET 

Now this be the Tale

Of two fine Wenches

As ever wet a Bed

Two  Dames created

Of lofty Lineage who

Found each other in

Tandem Pleasure

Full of Distraction

Pussy & Persuasion

Itch of Palm and a

Most Horrible Burning

Miss Furr and Miss Skin

Languishing in Leisure

Imperial Personages

Solace and Consolation

Is Paris Burning Yet?

Showing their Sighs and Thighs

Their Swoons and their Moons

Their Strengths and their Fragilities

Their Ooohhs and Aaahhs as

Well as a full Exposé of their

Dishy & Bitchy Lesbos Distempers

Written & Illustrated

By a Queen of Fashion

Dames and Dutchesses

Ditching Butchy Breton

As well as Pouty Pound

Trashing the Testicular

And Byzantine Baggage

Riding Side-Saddle atop

The Patriarchal Pricks of

So-called Male Muy Macho

Discarding Romeo and

All that boring Bathos

Smack-of-the-Whip

Riding Crop and Superb

Pain Sisters of Sapphic

Hip-Boots & Scarlet Riding

Gear Getty-Up Baby Boyz!!!

Duchesses Clitoressas

Wincing Naughty Nuns

Of Speeding Stallions

Guard your Daughters well

Venus is back in Force

Slips of her Tongue-Tied

Lachrymose Urns & Urges

Seeking Out Girls in Need

Patience Scalpel 

Myrna Loy our Pussy Galore

Sickle of Reaping Sorrows

Plough of Plunging Night

From Beginning to End, Top

To Bottom, Inside & Out,

Able to Understand all our

Hopes and Fears for Love

Gamboling, Pushy and

Moaning up there in the lofty

Sistine Chapel of Women

Who come & go talking of

Michelangelo, Whorls and

Crevices of Sisters like

Two Peas in a Pussy Pod

How patiently Indiscrete

Her Bright Red Herbage

Twisting between her Sunny

White Thighs as She Sows

And Reaps her Flaming

Captivatingly Irresponsible

Flourishing Pretty Thing

Contessa Condoleezza 

Lady Shock and Awe

Lovely Senorita Fly-By-Night 

Buzzing the Busy Beltway

All the way to Rome and Back

Madame Buck & Balk Bad Girl

With Mean Monocle and Whip

Buttocks-Boss Countess of Pain

Hillary the Rod 

Baroness of Bare Bottom

Hillary Rodham Arkansas Queen

Champion of Bad Boy Bill

Tough Broad from Little Rock

Turpitudnal Check-Rein of those

Feckless Male Panderings

Atop the Oval Office’s Desktop

Bible Bitch

Senator McSame’s Sweetheart

Pusillanimous Pussy of Perplexing

Caribou Kunt and Alaskan Pussy

Church certified Vice President from

Pushy Phoenix to Foggy Bottoms

First Woman USA POTUS Queen

East of Eden West of Fairbanks

To a Femme Fatale Diva Queen

—after Djuna Barnes

A THOUSAND words had smitten her 
       Into this thing;
Life had taken her and given me
        A nice little zing.

She came with laughter wide and calm;
        And splendid grace;
I looked between the lines and saw
        Femme fatale disgrace.

And found my life detoured wide
        Between muse and wine. 
I ceased to search, and growing wise
        She became mine.

Yet some wondrous thing within the mess
        Was held in check— 
Was missing as she groped and clung
        About my neck.

My master chord she could play
        Losing me by the keys, 
Yet she hinted of it as she fucked
        Between my knees.

She watched me come with subtle fire 
        And wiggling feet,
Crumbling like some lustful drunk
        Yet somehow sweet.

She saw the crimson leave my cheeks 
        Rings around my eyes;
For when a woman lives in awful haste
        Surely a man dies.

The books that lit my hours by night
        And made them gay, 
Soiled my sweet and ignorant soul
        And fouled its play.

Barriers and heart both broken—lust
        Beneath her feet. 
I’d cum forty times and she sneer
        Go out in the street.

A thousand times wasn’t enough
        To make it last;

Till the ruined crimson of my lips
        Grew vague and vast.

Until her femme fatale soul came
        At last to kill;
I paid the price and wondered why
        I needed her still.

TWILIGHT OF THE ILLICIT

—after Djuna Barnes

YOU, with your big blank eyes 
And your clammy hands,
You spotted me right away 
With my slack'ning arms.

With satiated fingers dragging 
You aside to my bedroom.

Spreading your legs apart like 
A pair of heavy plumbers pliers.

With discs upon your eyes like 
A full moon in sullen disguise,
And great ghastly loops of tight 
Curls snared in your ears.

Your closed eyes hand-beaten
Down there where you die.
My lips, long lengthened by sad

Sailorboy words unsaid.

One sees you sitting in the sun 
Asleep, all those young gifts you

Had and didn't keep, I grieve that  
The altars of your vice lie deep.

You, the twilight embrace of 
All my fire-wet Big Apple dawns;

You, my massive American Tree

Illicitly spawning yourself in me

While others shrink in shame 
You have borne me again & again

From up here in Columbia Heights

All the way down to Brooklyn Bride

REPULSIVE NEW YORKERS

Repulsive New Yorkers

From Fifth Avenue Up

—after Djuna Barnes

Someday beneath some bright—

Capricious marquee, spreading its

Blinking lights, you’ll know me for

The queen I really am. 

It only takes one look at me—

Cruising my way thru the subway

Giving myself away with
My legs half strangled in lace.

Seeing me in Central Park—

My cool pale eyes straining to
Touch those languorous anonymous
Obscene sailors with nice thighs.

Like Tennessee Williams—

I’ve managed to escape and feel
The recoil in fear what those fertile
Guyz urge in my blushing ears.

Fifth Avenue Going Down

—after Djuna Barnes

In the humid Brooklyn night—

In the heat my damp chemise lies
Pulsing beneath the beat of young

Sailorboyz fucking me like crazy.

See me sagging, bulging—

My composure beginning to slip

Wishing I had a nice vague vagina

Instead of a tight sore orgy asshole.

Once I would have called this—

Not very womanly or manly either

Saliva dripping from their puffy lips

Plunging my face into the pillow.

What would my mother say—

Back there in Columbus, Mississippi

That naked grimace looking over my

Shoulder, complaisantly full of dick?

From Third Avenue On

—after Djuna Barnes

And now I cruise the docks—

Whenever the Fleet comes in and

What trick or game of dice will I

Use to seduce roughtrade tonight?

Cruising the waterfront late—

I sleep all day long without any

Conscience or desire to confess my

Skanky, upturned legs in the night.

They swear in my ears—

Dirty prayers and hurried curses

All my friends have dispersed

Thru my window the stars aghast.

I have this vacant space left—

Here in my heart as my grin goes

Vacantly off into space with nothing

But my poor hurt cries to hear.

Seen from the “L”

—after Djuna Barnes

I yawn in the morning—

The molested young sailor thrown out

Down the dusty length of stairs

Another one’s always there.

I don’t really care much—

You’ve seen one you’ve seen them all

Chain-smoking my way each night

Slipping thru crooked alleys into vice.

I’ve lost my petulant youth—

I no longer bloom vividly vivaciously

I’m uncouth and repulsive-looking now

Hung-over, drooping eyes looking blue.

It’s twilight time for the illicit—

My insatiable fingernails digging into

Their sweaty backs, dark-rimmed

Sunken bedroom eyes mine. 

Sailorboyz in Bed

Sailorboy A

He sprawls out in bed—

A shifty-eyed, sexy tramp steamer

Tough sinewy muscular look like
That kid below deck on the Orizaba.

Sailorboy B

He gives me a hurried shove—

Like the Titanic going down fast

With a bored look on his face like

A dumb mug of beer gone flat.

Specimen Dayz

—for Walt Whitman

Down in the words—mulling around

if i do it at all—i must delay no longer

incongruous—full of skips and jumps

huddle of—verbatim diary-jottings

word-smudged—slate notebook notes

digital memoranda—automatic writings

hurriedly written—here & there

amidst uncertainty—and mortality

action, defeat—getting ready for it

taking notes—of the american tree

all bundled-up—tied to a mere stylus

haunted hour’s command—to write it down

later motifs & bumbles—realpolitic tropes

diary swaps—meandering memorabilia

laidback writing—letting it write itself

one after another—calamus pages

letting the mélange—movement prevail

impromptu, ad lib—lack of any narrative

listening to the other—spontaneous flow

illustrating the phase—writerly existence

chance—rather than planning it all out

finding myself—quite unprepared

hodge-podge lost things—loosely together

letting hurry & crudeness—tell the story

immediate—impromptu commands

which seem now—curiously imperative

even if i don’t—understand now

i’ll send out—a most wayward thing

spontaneous fragmentary—disjointed

somewhat whitmanesque—quickly?

cLEAVES OF GRASS

“It does not—suggest the

invention—but describes the

growth of an—American English

enjoying a distinct—identity”

—Walt Whitman,

An American Primer

“We find—Whitman

on this occasion—rather

laying—his plans than

undertaking—to perfect them”

—Horace Traubel,

Foreword, An American Primer

___________________

“Fast-forward—to the 21st Century

and we see—another revolution that

is turning the book—industry topsy-turvy

the transformation—from printed books

to electronic ones—this revolution

Spearheaded by—a modern-day Gutenberg
Amazon.com—the pioneer of the e-book

the Kindle device—for reading it

and the online—marketplace for

publishing—and selling it.”

—Gen LaGreca, “The Luddite-Statist

Attacks on Amazon,” Economics, Society,

and Culture, May 01, 2012

http://georgereismansblog.blogspot.com/2012/05/luddite-statist-attacks-on-amazonby-gen.html

__________________________

Whitman pauses—and looks at

Kindle as new—Leaves of Grass

A language experiment—with e-words

An attempt to give—the spirit

The body, the man—new words

New potentialities—of speech

An American—cosmopolitan speech

And the best of America—is the

Best electronic—cosmopolitanism

This new world—these new times

These new people—this new vista

Needs a new Tongue—électronique

Poème électronique—for today

Such a tongue—will be demanded

By the young now—they want it

They grew up—in an e-culture

They won’t be—satisfied until

Such a new Tongue—is wired

UBIK

UBIK

“Ubik wrote Ubik.”

—Philip K. Dick

Exegesis Feb 1978

“So the question is: who wrote Ubik?”

“That’s easy—Philip K. Dick wrote Ubik.”

“Yeah, I know that. But why does he say in Exegesis that Ubik wrote Ubik?”

“Well, I dunno. Are you saying somebody else wrote Ubik?”

“Instant Ubik ahs all the fresh flavor

of just-brewed drip coffee. Your

husband will say. Christ, Sally, I

used to think your coffee was only

so-so. But now, wow! Safe when

taken as directed”

—Philip K. Dick, Ubik

“Well, Dick seems to imply he wrote it—but more like in a non-linear, pastiche “Kipple” style, you know what I mean?”

“Well, c’mon now. You know Dick was pretty stoned all the time. Speed, uppers, downers—you name it.”

“Yeah, but I’ve felt the “Kipple” effect myself—like when I’m dreaming. Like things are constantly decaying and falling apart—like my memory and trying to remember things. “Kipple” is kind of like being in a state of “constantly forgetting,” you know what I mean? Like my memory is being erased all the time and it’s hard to remember or follow through on things like when I’m awake.”

“Well, that’s probably because being awake is like thinking linear from point A to point B, you know, like narratively, living a storyline with a beginning, middle and end. While dreaming is more like “Kipple”—a sort of stream of consciousness that dominates and hogs up your attention all the time.”

“The best way to ask for beer is to

sing out Ubik. Made from select

hops, choice water, slow-aged for

perfect flavor. Ubik is the nation’s

number-one choice in beer. Mad

only in Cleveland.”

—Philip K. Dick, Ubik

“Yeah, I suppose it’s a left brain-right brain thing. We seem to be in the left-brain, they say, most of the time in this culture of ours. Dick seems to be saying that writing is more right brain—more like dreaming up these kitschy, campy, weird, disconnected scenes like in Ubik or some of his other novels.”

“Hmmm. Maybe.”

“Anyway, if you’re dreaming or stoned and writing like Dick, for example, and you’re in this supposed right brain mode, then it’s a no-brainer to maybe see the right brain linear mode doing the “Kipple Effect.” You know, like what is right brain or dream memory like? The more you right brain—the more you write Kipple crap.”

“Hmmm. You mean like in Ubik?”

I dunno. I suppose. That’s what Dick seems to be proposing though. Joe Chip and all the rest of the characters in “cold-pac”—kept in a state of “half-life.” It’s natural for Kipple stuff to go on while you’re in a state of this cryonic suspension—giving the deceased person limited consciousness and communication abilities. Half-life doesn’t last forever.”

“But Joe Chip and the others are all doing the Kipple thing much too fast—faster than they’re supposed to. Right?”

“Yeah. Joe Chip is special though—along with the rest of Glen Runciter’s privacy enforcement company.”

“Right. They’re paid telepaths hired by corporations that want to keep their trade secrets and be protected from copyright infringement stuff. There’s been this explosion on the moon and they’re all deceased. Or semi-deceased in “cold-pac”—so much for all these anti-telepaths.”

“Wild new Ubik salad dressing, not

Italian, not french, but an entirely

New and different taste treat that’s

Waking up the world. Wake up to

Ubik and be wild! Safe hen taken

As directed.”

—Philip K. Dick, Ubik

“Anyway, Dick’s got something in common with these “cold-pac” teeps, parakineticists & precogs.”

“What’s that?”

“His brain is deteriorating too. It takes a Kipple to recognize a Kipple.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Like Exegesis. That tome.”

“But Dick’s clever. He keeps the storyline going. He invents this deus ex machina thing to neutralize Kipple. It’s called Ubik in a spray can.”

“Yeah, it’s like the only novel I know where each chapter starts with a Ubik advertisement.”

“Wake up to a hearty, lip-smacking

bowlful of nutritious, nourishing

Ubik toasted flakes, the adult cereal

that’s more crunchy, more

tasty, more ummmish. Ubik

breakfast cereal, the whole bowl

taste treat! Do not exceed

recommended portion at any

one meal.”

—Philip K. Dick, Ubik

“Well, that’s how the novel works. The aerosol spray in a can of Ubik somehow halts the speeded-up Kipple effect that his colleagues have undergone. In fact, it’s like somebody or something has not just decayed or done an entropy thing on them. It’s like they were all eaten up or sucked dry before their time.”

“Joe Chip finds out in this Beloved Brethren Moratorium Mortuary that one of the “cold-pac” semi-deceased persons is preying on both him and his precog friends.”

“Yeah, that’s a cool ending I suppose to the novel. Joe Chip and the Jory kid having this weird confrontation thing—almost like a Kipple Movie within a Movie…”

“This Jory kid was no innocent kid though…”