You thought I was mute, didn’t you?

Bitch-boy on the back of the bike,

there for show, right?

They all thought that.

Wez too, sometimes. He always liked to show off,

Max knows it.

I mean, what else do you call a savage

who growls like a beast and pops wheelies?

If that wasn’t assertion enough of his dominance, then

maybe pulling an arrow out of his arm was.

—But I’m not about to complain,

I loved my big, mohawked guy.

He cared for me and

protected me

until

Yeah, I know the lad didn’t mean it—

the feral whelp, that is, the one that spoke in grunts,

wearing only old, smelly furs.

He didn’t throw it at me,

didn’t know it would hit me,

but it did. And let me tell you, a

boomerang to the head fucken hurts.

It was quick, at least, and I’m glad for it

(better than smashed by a tanker, I’ll admit).

But who knew I was to be like Helen, who sparked the Trojan war,

only I sparked a high-octane road battle?

Again another Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior influenced poem. This is a dramatic dialogue from the perspective of the Golden Youth, who rode pillion to Wez, the psychotic warrior with the red mohawk. 

Here I stumble along with empty sight

in my mind and fury behind my eyes,

forlorn and aching and cold from your lies.

Finally I can stand, ready to fight

and push you away. You, a mere pimple

in this life, living to drive me crazy

with that sharp tongue. I am not your “daisy,”

baby, never was. I’ll make it simple:

You’re a blemish to me and to mankind—

just like the others, easy to detect.

You Neanderthal. You ass. You canine.

Smug bastard. Say you deserve my respect?—

don’t make me laugh! Show yourself to the door.

If I never see you again, up yours!

A sonnet wherein the last word of each line was chosen at random. Yes. “Pimple.”

Was is hard to fake that smile, Johnny?

Or is it just “John”? You almost look happy,

Which I guess is good, but I can only imagine

What you really feel under that stoic grin.

Truth is, I don’t want to know. I prefer

To think you have whatever other twelve-year-olds

Have on their mind. Maybe games, or sports,

Or just being outside?—All the things you

Wanted to do, but couldn’t, right? I guess Cf

Didn’t agree with you, judging by the tight skin

Hugging your cheekbones like they wanted to

Pop right out. I bet the clavicle and ribs do the same

Under that vintage, seventies flannel.

Did you think about death often? God, I hope not.

You shouldn’t have to think about dying when you’re

Just a kid, you know. You shouldn’t have to down

A fistful of horse-pills every morning, noon, and night.

But you did. You did it for as long as you could.

Is it selfish of me to wish you held on longer?

I wanted to meet you.

I still do.

Written for the uncle I never knew, who died at age 13 of Cystic Fibrosis.

Driving over the limit

is just one of my sins in this world;

is just one of my talents;

is what sets me free—

just to feel the speed my legs don’t know;

to feel in control

and set apart, in the far left lane

as God, if for only a few seconds.

The first line is from the poem “Stone Pond” by Voigt.

Cable back then only had 100 channels or so. Maybe less.

Flipping through never took long. And that’s what I did every day after school at Meme’s house.

After a snack (the best kind of snack—the kind only a grandma could make),

I would grab the remote and flip away in a mindless drone of commercials and daytime television, waiting for something interesting to captivate my seven-year-old attention span.

37 had the best cartoons.

On my way to it, someone screamed at me and I dropped the controller.

Someone was a she—she was screaming—

Everything was white. Gowns, sheets, masks

Another scream.

She was dying. She must have been.

My mouth was dry as a huge glob of guts poured out of her private area. It made mine hurt.

Another scream.

What was it?

“It’s a boy!” I heard. A baby.

I wasn’t stupid. I know babies came from inside mommies. But there was so much—

Blood, and alien carnage it looked like.

Why did she scream?

I looked at my babydoll(s) next to the t.v.

The lady on the screen was crying now, holding the baby.

I looked at her and the dolls. I looked at her baby and the dolls.

When I screamed, Meme changed the channel to 37 and hushed me.

She was a mommy—of my mommy. I was going to be a mommy one day.

Would I scream too?

An accurate memory.

Whatever you do, don’t keep any friends

Cut all your loose ties and live

Alone, in seclusion, in a locale with

Little sun and warmth.

Stay away from fruits and vegetables—

Anything with organic nutritional value

And stick to the grit and grime of artificial

Grease and deep-fried calories.

Avoid any possible physical activity

That isn’t walking to the bathroom or

Parking your ass in front of the t.v.

For some celebrity gossip.

Sleep as often as you can, well

Into the afternoon and early evening;

The later you stay up, the better.

One day (if you’re up to it), find

Yourself a spade and dig a nice, fresh hole

In the front yard, among the weeds.

When the time comes that you just don’t

Want to wake up, you know where to go. 

I’ve yet to meet you, whoever you are.

We’ve already spent lifetimes together

In a million possible futures far

From reality. Here, in this nether

World of my own creation, you’re perfect

And imperfect; a design without seams,

So very human—riddled with defects.

You’re real. You are real. But only in dreams

I remember clearly; never when I

Wake up, back in that lonely consciousness

Where everything hurts. But you’re still alive

And out there waiting, so I’ll take the chance

And love and maybe finally find you.

A million fake futures will just not do. 

Come follow me into the Wasteland,

So we can thrive on the desert sand.

Just you and I, forever bound;

Together in this desert mound.

On two great wheels, we will survive,

And pillion, always, I will ride.

We’ll race the sun at breakneck speed,

As dunes bow for your metal steed.

Though all the long day we must roam,

Wherever we lay our heads is home.

The hot sun and cold moon we can defeat,

Knowing gold treasure lay neath our feet.

By force, we’ll raid the desert clean

In our great hunt for gasoline.

We’ll pillage this abandoned hell,

For combined as one, we cannot fail.

Come night, when all that’s fierce expires,

Together we’ll lie beside the fire.

I’ll smile and you’ll ask me why I do.

‘Cause I’ll have lived another day with you.

This life I want, with you, to share.

And Humanity’s cage cannot compare

To the solitude of the desert sea.

So why not ride on out with me?

Another Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior love poem. From the Golden Youth to his master, the Mighty Wez of the Wasteland.

The structure and basis are inspired by “The Passionate Shepherd to his Love” by Christopher Marlowe.

Christian upper-middle-class bitch

You fucking piece of shit

Aryan, honor student.

Piss on me.

An in-depth look at your resident author.

My clitoris is a good friend of mine

I visit her now and again, in the nighttime

I can tell her things I can’t tell anyone else, wordless, while I’m lying in my bed

Pining between the sheets

Just her and I, old friends

She knows my fantasies, my quirks, my fetishes, and desires

But she isn’t repulsed, only supportive and receptive

As she sends her approval in shockwaves of swollen sensitivity

So sensitive, like me, that we only chat for a spell before parting ways. 

Literature of the Clit: Cliterature.