finger to ass

by Grievous Jones

so damn easy being puerile making jokes about getting old,
jokes about cocks and getting rocks off and girls who barely
had tits and all the things we’d do once we knew what it was,
so simple having rod and tackle to shoot under the sheets
in the ceiling’s direction and never worry about the stains,

my doctor tells me I have hemorrhoids and should put cream
on it three times a day, who the fuck’s laughing now.

THE QUESTION

by David Oprava

what kind of beast am I
comes in mirrors,
whisky bottles,
and homeless beats
passed on the bus at dusk.

Always watching this crash
where disaster is sure,
can't turn away
from the view,
should,
but don't want to.

When the question comes
to be or not, the latter
is a more certain bet,
the shitty bit is the wait.


*Dave's website: http://www.davidoprava.com/

WRECK

by David Oprava

The re-run TV glow on low,
shades slowed, he lays twitching
in samsaric-bug sutra wed to the bed

whose sheets crooked-swell in small
lapping wavelets stained
with lost semen washed across them;
this is his shipwreck.

His un-cut minnow strains chained
by the furious fist of a skipper's chubby choking,
fantasizing her amidst the strewn debris

of the last decade, whose idea was
it to take this boat into shallow water
he wonders as his harpoon shoots
more white whales in the deep.

Weeping, he sleeps off the sombre
and dreams sweet Mary Ann and Ginger
sandwiches.

She left the key for the final time,
the ring of the phone taken off,
the finger thrown hard against

the wall where it lays next to dirty pants
lingering in that last glace and phrase,
you plonker.

Wraps himself in the sails
and stays bereft inside,
hiding from himself,
the real reason she left.

COWARDS

by David Oprava

Love's ready,
got his pulling pants,
tight black lap-dance
ball enhancers,

monster cocking
loud loud loud
in the gloom of his basement
room, hidden from sight

waiting for someone
to turn on the stairwell
light, the bare bulb hanging
black in the creaking space

below the lives that trundle
on above bitter-hearted
lonely down there
he listens to the listless

footfalls of the people
who banished him from
doing any more harm.
Love screams...

but no one listens,
they're too busy fucking.


*Dave's website: http://www.davidoprava.com/