Harley

I've touched the silky lining of death's cunt.
She's cold but her hole is hot.

This hand-me-down I call my self—
even this—even this is a rental.
They'll take the blood out of my body
and they'll wash it and wash it
and return it to me clean.

and some fool on a motorcycle
will leave me something in his will,
one of his two laundries.

I'll buy a Harley
—pick up a fat broad

—fuck her drunk—dead drunk—
She'll be my motorcycle mamma
—I'll be her daddy—big daddy—
—big daddy with the beefy cock.

or I’ll write poetry about mortality instead
and be frustrated by unrequited love
and my benefactor's remains will be kept quiet
by daily anti-rejection medication
until something else fails
and this rental falls due to the next tenants.

Maybe some part of me will remain
to be passed on to someone patient.
Maybe by then they'll be able to pass on
my hard drive with all its subdirectories and files
and he'll write poetry about mortality
and be frustrated by unrequited love

but i hope he buys a harley.


© Dan Goorevitch, 2000