\”you cannot shake hands with a clenched fist.\” Indira Ghandi

Me and my dick have seen better times.      I say this, in part, to rattle an acquaintance so anal grammatical treatises are practically dropping out of her arse.      In the main, I mention it as a nod to fumbled moments better spent.      That which doesn\’t kill you makes you stronger, some say. That which doesn\’t quite snuff out the candle has a propensity to simply maim instead. My pissy old dick is not so much a monument as an embarrassment: wrung out; battered; a stub of rubber cod after years of legally prescribed chemical abuse. The head all scarred and listing like a middle-aged spastic trailing a shopping cart full of kelp home after dark.      A target for sticks of two by four. Crumbling bricks.      Well. I refuse to tie it up in latex as a gift. Leaking pearls before swine.      It limps on as we all do. Tiny wind-up soldiers marching in circles. Straight off the kitchen table and onto the linoleum.      A runaway jihadi hoodwinked into modelling a suicide vest.      We are all of us, at the end of the day, survivors of sorts.      Rewind the tape. Spit it out. The morning anti-psychotic. The gastro-resistant gelatin capsules.      Doctor Feelgood is in rehab and unable to answer the phone.      My tumescent appetite trembles on the wire.

1 view0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

punishment exercise, weblog version

Hello. I am still breathing, if you wondered at this latest absence. I needed to step back from the drop awhile, the empty space between the rails, to let the game play out. It has not been pretty for