Four Poems, by Lee Levinson

Realisateur

Zulu priestess of the square up motherfucker;

Welcome!

Armed to the teeth,

shish kabob-ing urinary tract infections cum

the filthiest of wise.

Huff that puppy milk.

My Calvins are all anyone allows now.

Prancing yellow lilies the likes, of

my teat on the vomit bag of

incognito allies in fashy 'dos.

Imbibe the prison sentence away

Sir I say your face screams hunger for a wallop.

       It's the nitrates in your food that reek of desperation.

       It's the social construct of free speech allowed to you and you only.

            I'd like to tie your mustache to a woodchipper during busy season.

            I'd like to know your genital horoscope to blackmail the gods.

            I'd like to walk a free man over the rusted bed of nails which is your argot.

                    Investing in probiotics and the free ferment of cellophane smuggling.

                    Investing in world peace vis-a-vis a pestilence so pharaoh the basement floods at will.

                    Investing in a .22 aimed at and of shit speak.

Sir I say technologies taunt your pseudo existence in a screen cracked by slave labor.

         It's the blood in the pudding we savor.

         It's the ample glass guillotines more masochistic than hand held stone age advancements.

               An entourage of lollipop men are quite cute, for the drunken.

               An entourage worth their weight in cold cash can rival a down pillow.

                An entourage equitable to erectile dysfunction in the face of an oedipal denier.

             Ritual, dare the asshole tantalize my free speech?

             Ritual, my enemy knows the obsidian I glint and gleam over piss water trough trophies.

             Ritual, the war doesn't allow my refusal.

My Liquor Store

My liquor store is fascist for me.

My liquor store lays waste protean gander.

My liquor store pin-cushion tongue fucks my curls from sleep.

My liquor store swallows bricks.

My liquor store prefers mannequins boneless.

My liquor store is a lurid threnody which does trickle and trample the ghetto thorough.

My liquor store sprouts carrion idolatry and the like.

My liquor store is a canine who trips over their hind legs in anticipation of shit.

My liquor store bellows the anagram of Satanical conjecture in front of ye.

My liquor store is gaseous isopropyl.

My liquor store says flesh haunts this vision.

My liquor store spits for luck, a long phlegmatic oeuvre doused in kerosene.

My liquor store does tickle this tramp.

Ode To Ortolan

As food for thought, I dissipate,

Each meal/

Each fuck/

Each curse/

Shall be my last.

And if questioned for what shall be,

The last of tastes to test this tongue,

No other holds the weight of one.

Ortolan! Ortolan!

Oh outlawed Satan’s son.

Careen cross each dead sea

Which lights the hopes of fallen promise

Tonight we shriek in permanence

As if our yelps could cauterize

that which bleeds eternal

drought by wanton powerlessness.

There lies the heaps of fleshen war strewn scars

Internal claw marks scoff the self

Tis time to add to mounting scabs

With venal mainstay to tow the line.

Yet,

let a criminal shrink to show

This masochistic dance to dull

And vociferate the filth of family.

I harken down the soiled sheets and blow.

Aha—dare your lassos trepidate

This pell-mell life strewn crimson hate

A laugh as incognito as your mate.

But still

I often ruminate

the worth of windows framing silhouetted men

Too small to castrate.

This is a joke as always is,

Come now let us let them in

They trounce the archways silly still

Till breaking backs are but a thrill

And weapons lose their weight in gold

As brunching buffoons strain opal sin

My woman’s stench has but a hold

Over the pudding with blood strewn in.

II

Cain crushed tomatoes with his clean feet

To saunter solipsistic; crowned the fool

Alas the brethren are but sheep

To men who crave the hellish heat.

With veins scar tissued to a T

Brother of man trouncing ghettoed streets of cheap snacks

And specials smothered betwixt sandwiches,

They know not of the heathen heat,

They know not of the vitamins nightly I pee.

My vacuity of a bowel knows no keyholehole worth peeping,

Nor man cares to tantalize this sphinct,

I can't tell if it's burning which afflicts the flesh or

A numbing nomenclature of subsidized light.

Lee Levinson is looking for an enemy. He tweets @schlock_jaw.