Solidad Decosta – Two Poems

Solidad Decosta

Two Poems

where (I) lost (my)

barely slept and the hostel had fifty dollar rooms and the six am
cafe is snotty and the jelly purses are fifty percent off and the
Natalie Merchant is roadside memory fresh and I smell homesick
and roadsick and parasite paranoid and sleep deprived and I

crept and the turnstile had fifty scholar tokens and the six-
armed paté is plotting and the jelly roll morton is half bred
(ed) and the National Merchants are turning over ecstasy french
rolls and I smell hassenpheffer and road runner and practically
putrid and need a

revival and I scarcely think that the footstool makes a good
roaster and the picks are mangé/es pion age/while a fella strolls
in June, half dead (yes) and the practical mechanics are revving
their essence mensch tolls and it strolls with Hassan i Sabbah
and Stetasonic heretics and rack of lamb mmm and vegans are

turning in their casein and the toad school makes a good
revolution and the sticks are beckoning/get it, beck on/ring!
hello? A toll in bikini, too? OK, I’ll half your dreads (maybe)
and prance all over your Mabuhay/they’re specializing in French
situationism and it’s starting to get on my nerves and meanwhile
hairstyles are up forty and packs of man-eating flesh pods start

resuming gates and taking total awareness stakes a good beefsteak
and the tomatoes are (…)/still, it/sing, so that the store to
stare your debts (is) and poverty allots/o your mauve/testicles,
they’re/suckling a wrench for titulation/and I thought you
divorced me, or did I divorce you?/nevermind, the/skylight
is/exploding/and surely/you must/need to/sleep/by now

the new transgression

switchblade-carrying stone femme tranny dykes, manginas, girl
dicks everywhere, saying “oh, is that your penis?” to a total
stranger, carrying a picture of your cunt in a locket around your
neck, intersexuality not being hot for a change, scalpel-
wielding, slicing open, “for the good of the child” dancing
eugenics masters tit clamps as foreplay and burning down their
clinics as climax, sex in the meadow every time you think of
starfucking Tom Cruise—that’s a good girl—prrrr—aaaah, balloons
(it’s a fetish – look it up), making out with the Homeland
(in)Security model pics on SF transit then ripping them up
afterwards for the cameras and the whole world to see, running
naked across the tarmac because they declined your credit cards
at the ticket counter again, no more putting out for red meat
repugnicans and their blue balled supporters until they abdicate
our crown of thorns, no rest.

return to SHAMPOO 24