SHOOTING A BABY COW OUTSIDE THE AMISH GENERAL STORE AFTER LOSING ANOTHER CUSTODY BATTLE 1973-1983, by Em Dick-in-Son

DRIVE THE GUN
LASSWELL STYLE
BULLET IN THE CURB APPEAL
RODENT ON THE BLOODY GRILL
THE SKY IS BLUE
THE ROAD IS BLACK
THE HAY IS HURTING
NOOSE FOR A NEEDLE
BURN BATTER BOXES BOATS BUILDINGS
BRIDGES BUGGIES BONNETS BUTTER
BUSTLES BELTS BIBLES BOARS
CHURN CHURN CHURN CHURN
WITCHES AT THE GATE
SHARE THE KIDS WITH JEWELS
NANCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS
DON’T BUY DRUGS
FARMCASINO ON THE LAND
SLOTS IN THE DIRT
CONCENTRATE TO PISS
BERLIN WALL THE TOWN OVER
COAL CAMP CORN CLUBS CAKES
COUNTRY CASTLE CONSIGNMENT CRIB
CHRISTMAS CRITTER COOKIE COPS
KEEP COMING BACK HERE
JENNY’S DAD WITH A WHORE
UNDER THE MATTRESS FRIENDS AND JENNY
GET OUT OF THERE
GENUINE LEATHER WHIP
BULGING BROTH VEINS
OVERDOSING LIKE FLIES
1,000 1,100 1,200 1,300 1,400
COUNTING CAR CLOTS
ALL EYES ON THE SIZE
MOSQUITO SCREEN PORCH
SQUIRREL GUTS ON A MACHETE
JOHNNY DEAREST DRIPPING ABSINTHE
EAT IT MOMMY EAT IT
THAT’S LASSWELL STYLE
BULLET IN THE SHOW ME STATE
VERSAILLES MISSOURI USA

To see Em Dick-in-Son's first poem in The Eunuch, look here.

The Last Rotting Days of Christ, by Blind Boy

My lips chap
gazing off the sharp ledged precipice
Kneeling to begin my prayer,
Hot black blood creeps from my broken skin
A sharp cry cracking and tumbling into the hole
I vomit in to nothingness,
And in turn the universe vomits nothingness back into me.
Gazing down I can see the blacked vile of my veins
as it mingles with the dust
reddened and tear-filled eyes
I see a distant life unfurled,
a mighty flag in the sky,
indomitable, a promise it carries.
Watching the machine gobble my image.
Forced to watch as time forgets me
I am undone,
Unraveled and cast out
Walking cold and nameless
skin breaking again and again,
Bleeding a sorrowful stream.
Created once to be less,
then compelled to be more.
Dust grips and shreds in my lungs
Reeking of blackness,
heaving that darkness into my lap.
Quickly forgetting my trouble.
Crying, born again scar covered and sick but
Myself.

To see Blind Boy's first contribution to The Eunuch, the cult-famous "Delirium (Trying to get turned on by Molly)," click here.

I Woke Up to Blood and Branding Text, by S.M.H.

I Woke Up to Blood
Dog skeleton//leashed to tree//bullet hole in head//I still hear it
suffer// brambles sharp// trees red//dog blood//dog chained to tree or
person bullet hole in head round as cigarette burn//dog or person
chained to tree//bones scarred by beaks and teethings// body tightening
//muscles drawing up// //coiled like copperheads//eastern land is filled
with them//brutalized corpse// a person crippled to death//I still hear
them suffer//agony is the pain before dying// the fear of burial is
real//darkness is dark//in terror of night// animal blood sticky//animal
blood all sticky//I woke up to blood// what graves were dug in
sleeping?// I woke up to blood// Did I bleed?//I bled//I think I bled//A
different smell than my own making// where did my hands go to thrum the
edges of the earth?// a corpse I dream// the brutality of grieving//I
dream a corpse I dream//corpses grow as if breeding//filling dream
fully//skin chafes for love or hunger//skin grafted onto bark//spirt
dead or charging higher//I woke up to blood// covered in loamy soil//
smelling of alien earth//what graves were dug in sleeping?//rope on neck
of dead//gutshot//crippled fluid//seeping grime//torsos purged// the
cunt of a family//mother battered each baby head with ball peen
hammer//curve of skull//shattered moon//maw of sun//childs skull//breach
birthed to death//imagine the dead in your mind//burn victim is a
victim//gauze wrapped// like wedding veil//maggots dancing in the
wound//burn victim is a victim//chained to tree//dog or person chained
to tree//splinted to fear//I still hear the suffer//the world is
wicked//the blood is hot//vermin cannibalize//vermin cannibalize my
dreaming//I woke up to blood//smelled the ore of mining
bodies//penetrated  iron inside the skin//teeth cured in the red of
it//I see faces//I see faces in all things//jawing scream in pocked
stone//dense black of waves// jawing to hold hammer high//to bring it
down between marbled eyes//of someone loved// picture wavers// blood
moves//eyes cross//blood vibrates//picture wavers//embalmed// aura
blooded//pollinating gore//fire will cleanse the terror clean//burnt
duff of body//smoking like an ember//imagine the dead in your mind//I
woke up to blood//I see the faces calling//to burn the tools// of what
trade//I am not sure//The world is wicked//the blood hot// my eyes
crossed//cataract in pain//imagine the dead inside your mind


Branding Text
I want to mark the text //to make the murder real //in the space of the
unconscious//I want to mark text //with the blood of the spirit //that
churns fantasies of pain //onto the pulp of dead trees//I want to mark
the seizure//of the exorcised spirit//onto the pulp of its recording//I
want to mark the text //like a date on a calendar//marking the turning
of the unconscious//in the season of its pain//what dark sin snakes its
way in the labyrinth of hallucination?//what is dying in the realm
beyond flesh?// Bodies stacking in the darkness of the cosmic mind// a
thousand bodies mutilated// by my hand//in the realm of the spirit//
atrocities we commit in fiction//are real // bodies stacking ten feet
high//the Word of atrocity//vibrating with psychic wounds//The world is
fiction//the plague that binds us to this dream// mutilated in blooded
heat//a dream//a void // rage vibrating //the  apocalypse of
Being//scalding the unconscious//brutal dream//that winds through the
desert of sight// // words like fire//forest of the unconscious//raped
by burn//knitted like a needle// into the roots //of the blistering mind
//This is real death

To see S.M.H.'s other sets of poems on The Eunuch, go here and here. S.M.H.'s poetry collections are available from Void Front Press.

The hawk flew face-first into the room, by KH

The hawk flew face-first into the room

Immediately slicing the sinews of he and I

went careless through castles

        Negligent             night

        Reckless              routes

        And slipshod       shadow

He dropped dinner;

The last concern

patient patrons prod rodent

Nascent climb its savior’s leg

To sexual harassment the holy ass

We giggle love now squirrel’s caress

The Clumsy King watches now

Eyes coated in halcyon

And talons wrapped in pride

Let ulcer skirt home

Let people have pock-marked ropes

It ain’t worth the damn bother  

L'Anus Solaire (The Solar Anus), by Georges Bataille

L'Anus Solaire (The Solar Anus)

by Georges Bataille

1927  
translated by Jan von Stille

It is clear that the world is purely parodical, in the sense that everything we see is the parody of another, or that it is that other, but in disguise.

Since phrases circulate through a brain occupied by reflection, there emerges a total identification such that, by way of a copula, each phrase links one thing to another; and all will be visibly connected if one discovers, by way of a single glance into that totality, the trace left by Ariane’s wire, which conducts thought through its own labyrinth.

But the copula of terms is no less agitating than that of bodies. So when I cry to myself, “I AM THE SUN,” the result is an integral erection, for the verb “to be” is the carrier of amorous frenzy.

All the world is aware that life is parodical and refuses interpretation.

Accordingly, lead is the parody of gold.

Air is the parody of water.

The brain is the parody of the equator.

Sex is the parody of crime.

Gold, water, the equator or crime may each indiscriminately be proclaimed the principle of things.

And if it becomes apparent that planetary soil is not the origin, though it appears foundational, but rather the circular movement that the planets describe around their mobile center; then a car, a clock, or a sewing machine may be called generative principles with equal validity.

The two principal movements are the rotational and the sexual, the combination of which is demonstrated by a locomotive’s wheels and pistons.

These two movements transform reciprocally, the one into the other.

Thus we see that the earth, by turning, makes the animals fuck, makes the people fuck, and (insofar as a result is also the cause of its cause) that the animals and the people make the earth turn by fucking.

It is the mechanical combination or transformation of these movements for which the alchemists searched and which they called the philosopher’s stone.

It is through combining these magical values that we can determine the actual situation of humans in the milieu of elements.

An abandoned shoe, a rotted tooth, a nose too short, a cook spitting into his master’s food are to love what the flag is to the nation.

An umbrella, a sexagenarian, a seminarian, the reek of rotten eggs, the gouged eyes of judges are the roots by which love nourishes itself.

A dog devouring the stomach of a goose, a drunk girl that vomits, a sobbing accountant, a pot of mustard represent the confusion which serves as love’s vehicle.

A person placed in the milieu of others itches to know why he isn’t one of those others.

Settled in a bed next to a girl he loves, he forgets that he doesn’t know why he is himself instead of being the body he touches.

Knowing nothing, he is tortured by the darkness of the knowledge that keeps him from crying out that he himself is the girl who forgets herself while wiggling in his arms.

Love or infantile rage or the vanity of a country debutante or clerical porn or the solitude of a singer misleads those forgotten people in dusty apartments.

It would be lovely for these characters to seek each other out: They will never find anything but parodical images, and they will fall asleep just as empty as mirrors.

The absent and inert girl suspended dreamless in my arms isn’t any more alienated from me than the door or the window out of which I might look or walk.

I recover indifference (which permits itself to leave me) when I am numbed by my inability to love those around me.

It is impossible to know what she learns when I teach her because she holds obstinately to her complete oblivion.

Planetary systems that turn through space like speeding discs and of which the center displaces itself and describes an infinitely larger orbit never leave their proper positions except in order to return to them at the end of each rotation.

This movement shows the geometry of a love incapable of fixing on one object, a love that passes rapidly from one to the other.

But the oblivion that conditions such a love is nothing but a trick played by memory.

A person awakens just as brusquely as a specter from its coffin and returns to sleep in the same way.

He awakens some hours later, then he drops again, and on and on like this every day: His grand fucking with the celestial atmosphere is ruled by the earth’s rotation in relation to the sun.

And so, though the movements of life on earth derive their rhythm from its rotation, the image of that movement isn’t the turning earth, but rather the cock penetrating the female and then withdrawing completely in order to thrust in again.

Love and life would not seem separate, but for the fact that everything is broken apart by vibrations of stout amplitude and diverse wavelengths.

Nevertheless, there are no vibrations that do not fall into a continuous circular movement, the same as a locomotive that rolls along the earth’s surface, image of continual metamorphosis.

Nothing is destroyed but to be born, like the dick that only leaves the body in order to enter it.

Plants stretch toward the sun and then fall back again toward the sun.

The trees bristle along the terrestrial soil as an uncountable multitude of blooming cocks, stiffened toward the sun.

Those furiously soaring trees will die, scorched by lightning or wilted or uprooted. Returning to the soil, they will rise again with new forms.

But their polymorphic fucking is a function of the uniform terrestrial rotation.

The simplest image of organic life is the tide.

The movement of the seas, this uniform fucking of the earth with the moon, produces the polymorphic and organic fucking of the earth and the sun.

But the first form of solar love is a cloud that has raised itself above the liquid below.

The erotic cloud sometimes becomes a thunderstorm and falls back upon the earth in the form of rain while lightning stones the layers of the atmosphere.

Rain stiffens itself in turn, in the form of the immobile plant.

Animal life issues entirely from the movement of the seas and, inside the body, life continually emerges from salt water.

The seas thus play the role of the cunt, which is made liquid by the excitation of the cock.

The seas vacillate perpetually.

The solid elements contained and embraced by this water, animated by erotic movement, burst forth as flying fish.

Erections and the sun scandalize in the same way as cadavers and the darkness of caves.

Vegetation points uniformly toward the sun, from which, contrarily, human beings must avert their eyes, though they alone among the animals are phallic like trees.

Human eyes do not accept the sun, nor fucking, nor cadavers, nor darkness, but reject them by different reactions.

When my face is flushed with blood it becomes red and obscene.

It betrays simultaneously, by morbid reflex, a bloody turbidity and a demanding thirst for chaos and criminal debauchery.

Thus I am not afraid to affirm that my face is a scandal and that my passions are not expressed but by the JESUVE.

The terrestrial globe is covered with volcanoes that serve as its anuses.

Although the globe eats nothing, it sometimes spews out the contents of its entrails.

These contents burst forth with fury and fall back streaming onto the slopes of JESUVE, flooding the earth with death and terror.

In effect, the erotic movements of the ground are not fertile like those of water but move much more quickly.

The earth sometimes vacillates in a frenzy, and its skin crawls.

The JESUVE is thus the image of the erotic movement produced by the bursting forth of all those ideas which contain the force of scandalous eruption.

Those in whom the force of such an eruption accumulates are necessarily at the bottom.

The communist workers appear to the bourgeoisie just so dirty and ugly as the sexual hairy low parts: Sooner or later there will be a scandalous eruption, in the course of which the asexual noble bourgeois heads will be severed.

Disasters, revolutions, and volcanoes do not make love with the stars.

Erotic, revolutionary, and volcanic explosions are at war with the heavens.

Like violent love, they produce themselves by disrupting the clarion call of fertility.

Terrestrial disasters oppose this celestial fertility; image of terrestrial love without condition; erection without source and without rule; scandal and terror.

It is thus that love screams from my throat: I am the JESUVE, filthy parody of the full and blinding sun.

I want to be killed while violating that woman of whom I can say: You are the Night.

The Sun loves the Night exclusively and drags over the earth his luminous violence, his infamous cock, but he finds himself incapable of reaching sight or Night, although the nocturnal masses of earth are continually drawn toward the filth of solar rays.

The solar ring is the unbroken anus of its eighteen-year-old body, so blinding that it cannot be compared to anything except the sun itself, although this anus is the night.

Submission Letter, by Em Dick-in-Son

The poem for which this submission letter was written.

So, this is me Maddie Albrecht submitting a poem. But if published, I'd like it to be under the name Em Dick-In-Son. 

Without intending to, I have been amassing a body of work that focuses on the utter shit-show of mainstream feminism (not even necessarily just feminism. To use a disgusting phrase, gender relations in general) and how I feel both defined and confined by it at times. Not in some regurgitated way. I mostly wish girls and guys, alike, would uh stop acting like virgin robots? My poems are an attempt to work through my frustrations but also take the piss out of myself and my often holier-than-thou reactions to what I see, hear, swallow, etc. Nobody likes a truly cynical bitch. But nobody likes an optimistic one either. So I aim for the middle. Maybe my perspective has something to do with the fact that the first porn I ever watched was "DOM DADDY PROFESSOR PUNISHES BAD GIRL TEEN SLUT STUDENT FOR SKIPPING CLASS XX" or something to that effect. Not sure. Still waiting to figure that one out.

Gibson Girl Power, by Em Dick-in-Son

I want to be scathing 

and not like other girls.

I watch their brains unravel

into teleprompter scripts

allegedly this and 

supposedly that and

I’m so jaded after years of this.

You should know, up front,

I was put on a blacklist,

but that only proves my point.

I received bad ratings 

for fisting myself with a man’s hand 

while I was on air.

YOU’RE FIRED,

a finger-wagging Trump condemns me

over and over on a screen.

Chads and rose boys 

lost their pants and minds.

It’s all subversive pantomime.

And I’m just so controversial,

aren’t I?

Sure, I’ll perform that, too.

I value my looks over hers,

which I don’t value at all.

Her brain is dead to me,

face decaying now,

a nauseating sight to see 

even in Hell.

And for everyone’s sake,

stop dressing like you’re twelve.

Smear my clit and cum

all over your grownup mouth.

Bemoan me as a mean girl 

while I’m looking down

and choking you with your own hair;

that’s my dirty little nasty woman.

But most of them are prudes

I can’t believe your tone!

I can’t believe how rude!

Girls support girls, don’t you know?

Ah, you must be the Victorian pacifist

I’ve heard so much about,

who slapped her wrists,

hushing her into shape.

Shut up, little miss.

Stand in line, please,

of our propaganda passiveness,

so we don’t get swallowed 

by the patriarchal abyss

[redacted bad slam poem]

Reader, I cancelled it.