Arthur Graham’s Reviews > Horror Sleaze Trash > Status Update

I used to watch him
and think
only the strong can
live like that.

Non-stop,
continuously shaking his
fist in the face
of God.

Thinking he could live
forever,
like a hero.

Drunk and alone,
in cowboy boots,
forever.

You should never tell a man
he's had too much to drink.

Because if you're telling him,
he probably has.

But
he'll still drink another
quarter bottle
of Scotch,
and shit in the cat's
water bowl,
to prove he hasn't.

I'm so embarrassed.
This is a three poem epic
about shaven testes.

I don’t know
what’s more embarrassing.

I’m a larger fool
than most give credit to.

In fact,
to tell you a secret,
these poems
were pretty much written
before I shaved my balls.

I push the end,
the tip,
of my foreskin
into the opening
of my beer bottle.

Of course it’s a strange thing to do.

Especially when I take
my next sip.

The Champs Elysees
has never been
fucked quite as hard
as your
button
cute
little
cunt.

She asks me
why I can't write
a nice poem
about pretty things
that don't include
sweaty dicks
and eyelid type
opening vaginas.

And as I entertain
such a foolish and
romantic notion,

I quietly start
to cry.

At home I fall asleep on the couch
and dream about the end of the world.

In my dream,
everyone is panicking.
Saying silly things
like,

“We are all going to die!
Somebody save us!
We are all going to die!”

But not me.
I’m a world-famous poet.
I’m relaxed and calm.

The words don’t matter anymore, but back when they did, this is the book that came out of me.