People
People come & go
They share
Sometimes forget
But always remember
The kind & The evil
The pussy cats
& the various pound dogs
The crackling fire
Gay porn stars
And flaming art
The sorrows
& the pain
I won’t forget you
Until you make
The order
And until you do
I’ll be here
For you
But just don’t come
& go
Stay once in
A while...
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.02.07.23:13:58 @ 296 NYC
Untitled (Making Love)
Speaking in tongues
Devilish swirls
Around tender navels
Feeling your thigh
Up against mine
We mingle and twist
In the midnight mist
Feeling the groove
Of fresh air
Amplify the erotic
Art of touch
Stealing the kiss
From last night
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.02.06:01:23:00 @ Flannery’s 14th st NYC
Memory Song
We are the pea-NUTS
The mighty mighty pea-NUTS
Wherever we go-OHhh
People want to know-OHhh
Whooooo we are-R
Soooooo we tell them
We are the pea-NUTS
The mighty mighty pea-NUTS
Wherever we go-OHhh
People want to know-OHhh
Whooooo we are-R
Soooooo we tell them
We are the pea-NUTS
The mighty mighty pea-NUTS
Wherever we go-OHhh
People want to know-OHhh
Whooooo we are-R
Soooooo we tell them
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.02.05.03:16:16 @ 296 NYC
Him
Because you cry when you sing
And pour sweat down the guitar which you play
Because you hug and miss those who share
And sing with gloria in the flames of my eye
Because you understand and I compare Vox to you
And not you to Vox
Because you sculpt angels in front of us all
And back home in your own cathedral
Because you connect and share the joy
And possess a talent that exceeds most
Because passion is a name you know
And a policy you follow
Because you buy food for the homeless
And have patience for Jack Daniel’s and holy water
Because you bring all up on stage
And do not conform with society’s limits
Because your friends and wife have stood by
And you have keen interests in your followers
Because you bow down to those who you love
And respect yourself the same amount
Because from Nyack to New York City I knew you
And the glare in your eye highlights the crowd you draw
Because you have climbed with us
And not on top of us
Because you have held our hands together
And made peace in my heart; and theirs, nightly
Because you save many from the streets of sorrow
And committed to the journey of desire
Because you are not ashamed to change
And try the new
Because you kneel
And not charge
Because you appreciate and welcome
And stare down at the bullets of evil
Because you are who you are
And we thank you for sharing your beauty
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.01.24.24.00:00 @ Rock N’ Roll Cafe & 296 NYC
99.01.24.06.00:00 @ Rock N’ Roll Cafe & 296 NYC
99.01.25.24.44:00 @ Rock N’ Roll Cafe & 296 NYC
99.02.04.02.33:00 @ Rock N’ Roll Cafe & 296 NYC
Alexander Filippou (An Artist’s Life)
I decided to go to the Post Office
Its only 430am
Had to get something in the mail
Right away then
I grabbed my coat
And ran outside
Slid my way
Across the icy snow
Down to Houston Street
I grabbed a cab
Around the corner
On Bowery
And slowly crept west
Alexander Filippou was my driver
For the evening just now
He feels tingles in his left arm
And a pain in his chest
No, not the doctor
He just needs rest
Alexander explains to me
Through our plastic barrier of exchange
We continue through the ice
To closed 6th Ave
And then to 8th
We pursue
Fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that
Alexander curses
I nodding my head
Making mental notes
Filippou pissed
He has to work hard
To pay the rent
But can’t get the Co-Op
Because the immigration is bothering him again
His mother and sister
Still remain behind
As the Ryder truck tailgates
Dangerously
They are in Russia
I’m sure cold too
We make our way
Through the tiny streets
To the avenue of 8th
Where we belt up North
Alexander tells me
How he was a trained fabricator
In his homeland of Russia
Supervising ten men at a time
He explains to me
The I-Beams of America
How strong they are
Buildings lasting for hundreds of years
Alexander wanted to open his own
In Brooklyn town
But they call for papers once again
So, he works fifteen, eighteen hour shifts
After the red and green lights
We arrive at 33rd street on 8th
My grand post office is open
Of course
24hours it is, indeed.
I wish my friend
Alexander
Have a goodnight
And give him 9 “I Am America” bills
Walking up the flights of icy white stairs
He goes off slowly
I’m sure with American dollars
Trying to make sense
The post office was usual
Security
Remotely tight
Because of Iraq over there
I do my business
And carry on with my art
I step down the stairs
And see the sight
I take some photos
to remember this night
I walk my way
Down 33rd and now up 7th ave
I want to see the center
Where it’s at
A few delis open
Selling produce and New York bagels
Of which I have none
Not even one
I get to the epicenter
Right near the NYPD
I’m in Times Square
To be an artist
I take my photos
Vertical and horizontal
My fingers now numb
In the coldness I share
Not to be too shy
I was on by
The porno shop
Even this too
Is not closed
On a night like this
Should I go in?
Just for one dance?
I’d like to see
That naked horror dance.
You know me well
I ventured inwards
And to my surprise
Only video tonight
Dollar booths with porn
With sounds of animals
Because the women who worked days
Are not here at this hour
Defeated in a way
I walk away
Down South on 6th Ave
Until I hit Broadway
I remember walking down
On sunny days
In the spring time
When it was warm
And that first walk
That I did many years ago
First exploring
The city, my city
I’m an artist
This is what I do
I observe everything
Welcome to my world
Running through the streets
A Bosnian effort
Of white delight
And tomorrow’s nightmare
I finally get to bed
Only to write this for you
It’s now 6:14am
Give me another hour
I’ll be up for twenty-four
Goodnight.
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.01.14.06:18:59 @ 296 NYC
Golden Years
Golden Years
Tempted cherry pops
Freezing Cold Rain
Just inside from the federal trip
Drug dealing happiness
Favors returned
Listening to her complain
Bitch
Her/ass the leftover
Clap! Clap!
Your hands together
Bounce around
From California
I’ll remember your ass.
Ha! You make me laugh
Golden Years
Let’s make a fabrication
Let’s make a baby
Darlin’
Come celebrate
With art and poetry
We’ll go down in history
To the fan’s syndrome
You dirty giant
You mixed media event
Feeling groovy
Like Mrs. Robinson
Keep the faith
Mr. Goldberg
I hardly know you
Take
Straddle
1, 2, 3 -- I fall asleep
McDonald’s
I’m your brain
Confuse my confusion
And I’ll be your left foot
For your Star Wars money
and 25¢
Dinkel Berry Trabant Man’s disease
Please play music
at my dear
Very own knees
Itis.
Itis.
Itis.
Months
With no mainstream
Those other boroughs
They burn like mosquitos in the sky
Rat-Tat-Tat! Rat-Tat-Tat!
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.01.14.04:05:43 @ 296NYC
sexual juxtaposition
Feeling my side
Against yours
The Bass pumps up
We feel the groove
The dancing drugsters around us
In the limelight heat
The red orange glows
The neon green striped gays
Smelling the hot sex
Up and down your thigh
We feel the grass
Coming down
Twining around our feet
The roots pull us down
Deep under the bass of the earth
Takes us under
The ground in which we knew was solid
Pulls us deeper
To the depths of our emotions
Until we die from our own wisdom
In the dirt where we were born.
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.01.14.02:21:47 @ 296 NYC
Purple Pleasure
Being in the pleasure chair with you
It vibrates below us
The puffy white pillows around us
I get captured in your every-day scent
I follow you in dance steps
And hold you tightly and close
I welcome your packages of home deliveries
From flowers to dildos
You turn me on.
Slowly I got to know you
And now we are a couple
Doing things together
Naughty or nice
Touch your lips
And kiss your thigh
A glide of a hand
Way down inside
In the shower
The steamy wetness
It makes us hot
And you slippery wet
You turn me on.
My soapy hands exploring
Every sensual curve
Every bend and pore
My hands cup your breasts
Your nipples now stiff
You turn me on.
Behind you I stand
Strong and firm
It’s the care we share
On this night we dare
No longer needed
Is that home delivery
You turn me on.
The purple pleasure is hot
Full of passion
With needs that have to come out
And cum
Flowing and galloping desires
Overwhelming and pouring
Like restless animals under African skies
Frantic love pain
Of throbbing rocking joy
That purple sky
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.01.22.16:46:38 @ 1515 NYC
New Year’s Day
It’s quiet out
The snow drifts downwards
Upon the cold pavement
On which I lay upon
Waiting
For the eighteen wheelers
To come by
It’s New Year’s Day
Come re-invent yourself
And play hopscotch upon my chest
It’s New Year’s Day
Feel the new as it gets older
And feel sorry about last year
It’s New Year’s Day
Kill the bad ones
And create new luxurious habits
It’s New Year’s Day
The eighteen wheelers have not come by
I lay
Still
Waiting
For the next celebration
To be forgotten and forbidden
© 1999 David Greg Harth
99.01.01.01:01:01 @ 296NYC
New Year’s Day
Re: Huummh!
Dead ants waterskiing
relatives that drink down
the backs of
young women
on used coffee grinds.
tasted black from the forms
out back
can’t do much
because that’s that
and it sure ain’t hell that miss ivy
league bitch
stroked
the freshmen team!
cause it ain’t miss town.
the busses running obscure hours
all the time
to get to and from
left of the right
around the back
lost on the back of a gnat
cum drenched winos in time.
for the mothers who had sons
lost at the war
ribbons tied to the bums
just one more
begging for sniff
even a scratch
big brick of USDA cheese
with its mother fucker of a latch.
yule logs burn
and so does disease
constitutions of tradition
the reciprocal of ease.
between my crotch
is someone’s snatch
i wish i had a match
to lite up miss america’s little ass!
hairy man
in the tub full of spam
its corporate CEOs
that don’t give me blows
wish i had a 9mm
shoot them all down
eat the pig’s feet
lick up the juices i could defeat
sucking cock at 3 a.m.
and assholes bleeding amen!
time to rape my fate
and break away from this track
find a big titted slut
and fuck her rack
with angst anxiety and touch of love
her nipples hard and driven
with hope from above
it’s a whaling sound
I made her scream
like the sheep i rammed
i fucked way back when
a child i was
horny as can be
now I’m only aged to ripeness
for firm titted women adjusted
i remember when
my veiny cock
it flowed of blood and cum
and a goat’s lasting jizz
i remember when
the professors fucked me
and when my thick one
was bulging
as I am today
for he and she and she and he
its all around the monopoly!!
my only friend is my cock
in my hand
fucking myself each night
with a cheap bottle
too late too fast too hard
fuck you!
each day passes with thoughts
of how to avoid being molested
by society.
long hard pull
drink orgasm smoke shit.
i will shave for you.
wanting to rub your cock against a poodle
dreams of all young men
the silver screen drives
ideals like Fat Albert
scantily clad young lovers
with M-16’s tattooed on their chests
escape from war crimes
by visiting the Met.
an icon’s wheels went
round and round - hit the ground
caught by a catcher in the raw
stuck on rye.
watch me now
catch me now
i am falling
i’m down.
blow jobs for the country
all around.
my ass rots and
my stomach stinks
perfumes and laxatives
defunk.
imagine no toilets or showers?
i desire a piece of plate glass on my face
while you shit on me.
defecation proclamation!
and with a tongue and cheek
I suck on the poison
the blood leaked from my asshole
only to find it
wrapped around my finger
for a mother to dine for, above
I hear the rhythm in the distance
and all they do is light up a smoke
the elder jerks off beneath his sheets
as the one in blue wears my hue
with donation baskets that
reek of filth and lies
and someone else’s bloody mess
i sit and wait to hear you say
halleluiah brother i covet
your fucking wife.
olive oil seeping down
the crack up a prostitute’s back
while families die in vain
over the tree.
the children
are drowning in a sea of
sweat pouring off of the
sacks and cracks of parents
who just
live with the it.
recalling the priest at the steps
begging me to blow him
suck his long cock
full of 7inches of semen
rock hard
uncut
recalling pounds of patty cake patty cake
bakers MY!
and that good tasting coffee cake
that I used to get in my lunch box
as a kid
Abused
Last gym pick
skinny mother
Wish I fucked her.
Recalling the great masturbator
Of the undercover floor - he died
or the Dali floor
Licked up
Fucked up
Chained up
And he asks to be dominated
Like an abortion pizza.
my head aches because
I can’t act out and let
you know how much
I fucking hate you and
your fat fucking face with
all that shit you spew on a
daily weekly monthly yearly
basis.
I look forward to the day the nail is
driven deep into your final place
of failure.
Instigation, guilt, mental tormentation
devised by your sick and twisted skull
fuck you
taking a bat to you blubbering body
would be like a rhapsody
as climactic as blowing a load
on the face of some school girl
for the first time.
Years later you still linger inside my head
each time I look in the mirror I
see you
hear you
smell you
feel you
loathe you
curse you
want to spit.
Sexual ambiguities stem from
your dominatrix brain.
you could have fucked me
beat me
kicked me
shit on me,
but you decided too mentally
tie my brain in a knot
to the bed posts of life
with your ever wrenching clinch on
all dreams and aspirations.
You emasculating bitch
I hope you rot in Hell!
and then lyrics
i heard them
about you and you and you and you
your wavy white ass in front of my face
a demolition beer
a beautiful ass
so tight it can be
all you do is stand in front of me
and blow out of your fuckin’ hole!
Ill sew you up
that’s what I’ll do!
Your lips on top
and between your thighs
Ill strap a dildo
I won’t let you inside
I remember your phone calls
And how you died tonight
I cut of your finger
as you begged for a locker
You had a slice of fish
And I, Play-Dough
Then the image burned
From TIME magazine
for you
a candle
in the wind...
BLOW UP!!!!
doll.
fucking your stinky
pussy with a cucumber
i bite the head off
of my own existence
with my finger up your
ass the shit still
remnant.
slapping cocks against your
chinny chin chin
you were my fortune
cookie!
school bells ring-aling
ring-aling
here I am another Pavlovian
ding-aling.
I need a drink.
I want my cigarettes.
I’m tired!
and then she came home
closed the door
put on the music
and dripped
hot wax all over my body
the the woman next to me
and the man next to her
heat all over
it was nice
nice
nice nice nice
nice
nice
nice
nice
FUCK THE NICE
i fucked her without
a hat
last night
came all over her face
stomach clit and thighs.
woke up half drunk
kicking myself in the ass
for my
irresponsible idiocies.
i scrubbed my cock
beet red
till i realized
it doesn’t fucking really
matter anyways because eventually
i’ll be dead.
but when I die
I will recall
that mother of the dead
will portray her daughter
the mothers will come from a far
to visit the graves of the dead
their daughters and sons
and husbands too
the widows come
sorry and sad
hungry for sex
and a big thick cock too
the mothers would come
to worship the dead
and there I lay
for them to mount
the mothers come
they straddle my dead thick cock
and with movements known to the dead
the mothers open their legs
they ride me like a stallion
amongst the dark graves
of the night
they fuck me till daylight
or when their daughters rise
from the graves I dug
each night i lay in
my coffin
scratching the walls
to freedom.
the felt lining was
once a place to ejaculate
fantasies over and over
and again and
again and
again.
and then i finally realized
that mothers do inspect the
laundry.
embarrassing loads of thick
dried cracking cum stain
my adolescence.
i want to cum mother
and you can’t stop me!
i no longer share the
bathroom with anyone
because now i have sprouts of
puberty popping in
my p.j.’s and Winnie-the-Pooh
even looks at me in a different light.
do you and dad fuck?
hard to imagine you bending over for anyone!
plus, there wasn’t anything he could
give any of us anyhow.
and even today
as I press my covered cock
against their wet covered pussies
as I dry fuck them
then I explode
with overflowing cum
into my boxers
above their wet cunt
should I be embarrassed?
or just continue on?
should i get breakfast?
or a lesson in control?
or maybe I should just be straight?
or gay?
or bisexual?
or just a mule in a castle and go home for
the night?
twiddling my thumbs!
oh like Dorothy
like a television show
sucking on honey
and a lasting impression
of big
cock-a-doodle-doos!
you have seen
behind my curtain.
the controls which control
my Oz.
Lions and Tigers and Bears
Oh my!
I am melting!
Can I cum in your
red slipper?
am I not a buffoon?
or just dr. seuss?
last mr. magoo?
do i taste thy cum?
or just wish you made me hum!
green eggs and ham
or a tub full of spam
it doesn’t matter to me
i just want to go on a
cumming spree.
Hee hee said the quaint
little chickadee
until i bent her over
and fucked her until
her eggs broke.
i’d like to crack an
egg on your skull and
lick the yoke until
it dries hard on your
chinny chin chin
she said
while i read your favorite
nursery rhymes to you
so i wont wet the bed.
plastic sheets drawn
tight with nurses
corners can make an
autoerotic day so
bright and so gay.
all sleep and no play
makes me a bad boy!
she said eloquent
I said, bitch, just kneel at my feet
she said eloquent
I said, babe, I’m just an elephant
she said don’t quit
I said, babe, I’m faithful 100%
she kneeled down
I bit at her frown
she made me cum
a sticky hot load
down her snob of a neck
she died in my arms
because i shot her in the head
love is nothing but
a sodomites fantasy
cum true.
the smell of your unwashed
ass
makes me harder than
a totem pole at
a pigmy bonfire.
roasted
nuts
and tea bags
sit well
upon your chin.
i want to smother you,
control you,
and make you the
object of my desire.
she responded with
a smile and said,
why don’t you just fuck me
like the pig that i am
for starters,
than we can move on
to the real fucking.
i want to fuck your
brain
from the inside out
and play handball with your
feelings, she replied.
oh goodie!
wake up dead man!
urine pouring down your back
beauty breaking at the spine
sunny days around here
garbage cans filled everywhere
beauty americans in the street
shooting killings out west beat
grateful sins on little tins
tiny children sucking their thumbs
photographs displayed
meat portrayed
buy it buy it
i am a consumer
deciding on your tombstone
what i wish were my birth
i go walking to the lines
of blurred sensations
and get my highs from
someone other than you.
licking your legs in
the afternoon,
and hearing you on the telephone crying
today
got me hard.
I wish I had a tomato
I’d let it rot outside
and then when it’s nice
and gooshy
and moldy
and wet
and awful smelly
I’d take it inside
to your nude chest
and drive a nail through it
the red rounded tomato
right upon your breast
roll me around in syrup
shave the hair off my nuts
and fuck me
in the ass with your
brush
bristles!
degrade me.
rape me.
hate me.
love me.
can i buy you a cup of me?
dear peanut butter dust,
I think I ran out of rust
Just the other day
How about we forget
about the fat man’s hand
on my crotch today.
that sounds lovely
because i feel like jumping
off the GWB!
there isn’t
anything to do
there isn’t
anything to say
just trying to make it
through one
more day.
i got to make it
through the day!
whatever?
feeling the lovely boy
feeling the lovely tape
I hardly knew you yesterday
but today i feel like a raped ape
ah the sweet smell of a
hairy shit
after a real long night
of heavy drinking.
I once saw a person
She barfed in the toilet
I once pulled a chain
Like from that toilet and chain
I once had an ankle with a ball
Like a chain and ball
I once had a friend
With big blue balls
Like elephants and rhinos
and super duper bouncing balls
I once saw a women
her tits bounced all over
I once had a woman
she between my balls
Like an elephant and rhino
AND THEN, THE FAT LADY HAD FINALLY SUNG!
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.01.01.01:00:00@Earth
98.12.31.00:00:00@Earth
Darkness (Version #2)
I’m starting to descend
Into the angel’s grave
I’m painting dark paintings now
Come into their depth
The paintings are blackness
Cold, dark midnight blue
I need to bolt them to the walls
Permanent and Resistant
To the children’s grabbing
And to Salomé
My passion is growing
To fertilize the land
With my lasting soul
My shadows no longer lurk
They capture me and pull me
To the underground
The silence is no longer my enemy
But my constant friend
And eager lover
They continue to lie to me
Telling me about the fantasy lover fame
And I cannot even make a frame
I pretend all these years
Not to work in a morgue
Not to feel the grooves in which we slide
The door is opening for me
I must go
For it is time
To move
The door is ajar
I can see the darkness
Forgive me
As I must go ...
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.27.22:09:49 @ 296 NYC
Winter Footsteps
It’s impossible
That in the coldness
I feel separated
Yet hot
Feeling hot
The warmth transferred
By my quiet footsteps
I left in the snow
I trailed along
Thinking of her
And where we were
And how I got there
I penetrated my thoughts
To think about the spring
In this winter town
This complex winter
Song
Making angels in the snow
With her
Making with her
In the snow
In our nude
It’s about time
To go around
Sing with joy
Of new desire
I think it’s warm
The snow is melting
Uncovering me
Follow my footsteps
Where they lead
And where they have gone
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.27.24:52:03 @ 296 NYC
taken
B01, taken, contracted
B02
B03, taken, extracted
B04
B05
B06
B07, painted, felt-up
B08
B09, revolted, taken
B10
B11, changed
B12, taken, changed, better
B13, taken, returned
B12
B14, misplaced
B15, (B), taken, new
B16, created, currently
B17, taken, because
B18
B19
B20
B21
B22
B23, me
B24
B25, taken, first, quarter, cents
B26
B27, I love you
B28
B29, taken, remind me later
B30
B31, exchanged, taken, taken
B32
B33, taken, possible
B34
B35
B36
B37
B38, 2nd
B39
B40, taken, long
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.26.23:02:38 @ 296 nyc
Never Again
Never Again
Will I make midnight cab rides
To underplayed Stevie Wonder fans
To fall in love with them
And rush back home
To wash up
Go to sleep
And bite my lips
To bed
Never Again
Will I repeat digits for those who want
Company and profit
Under black and blue skies
Or roll around in comfort
To be watched by hidden eyes
Behind locked doors
Never Again
Will I work up the courage
To tell you the truth
And share my friendship
And to tell you when it’s time to go
When I’m tired
And when i will dive off building tops
Never Again
Will my love be lost
Or my time be spent
With you
Because you are a waste of time
And you make me cry
And huddle in the puddles I create
Because you are not real
And you make me mad
And make my stomach spin
Never Again
Will I be your belly dancer
Or proud pounder
Or teacher
Never Again
Will I catch you
Protect you
Or save you
Never Again
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.21.23:22:00 @ 296 NYC
98.12.23.17:11:40 @ 1515 NYC
My Cat
I was driving my cat
From New York to New Jersey
Just across the border
He usually meows and cries
A lot
On these mysterious trips
But this time he was silent
Quiet
Did not say anything
It was a short trip
Only lasting four minutes
Or so
Listening to “Running to Stand Still”
And “With or Without You”
While sticking my finger
Into my cat’s ‘kennel cab’
Still, my cat would not meow
Nor would he rub his face
Or body against my fingers
He was eerily silent
And I knew something was odd
Wrong
The music playing
No meowing
No touching
I knew my cat was dead
I felt happy and sad
He wanted to be with me
When he died
He tried so hard
His tired old body
Waiting to be with me
One last time
I was prepared
To end my trip in New Jersey
And take my cat
Out of the car
And cradle his soft
Not yet stiff
Body
In my arms
Looking up towards the sky
Embracing on of the rare beings
I will have ever loved.
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.20.22:40:00@505NJ
Daily
Daily
I think of needs
And want the wants
But when it comes down to the simplicity of it all
Its so difficult to just be
So I wind down the clock
Take it back
Fix up the drugs
Give myself the injection
And think about her
I rank on the thoughts
Contemplating it all
The worlds collide
And the wonders keep up the juxtaposition
She says shes not the devil
She does not torture me
But I know the facts
She is just a playboy spinner
I sit quietly in the corner
So when I come up
One day
She'll say hello
In a different kind of way
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.08.21:36:19@505NJ
Would, Could, Should
I would have kissed your lips
If I could
I would have explored your sensual navel
If I could
I would have nibbled on your sexy ears
If I could
I would have sucked on your nipples
If I could
I would have shown you the beauty all around us
If I could
I would have walked hours around the sights
If I could
I would have shown you the midnight sunrise
If I could
I would have devoured the passion
If I could
I would have taken you down under
If I could
I would have poured my soul into you
If I could
I would have lit warm candles
If I could
I would have been with you
If I could
I would have held you
If i could
Should I have?
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.06.19:40:00@ Hollywood Diner NJ
98.12.07.04:40:00@ Hollywood Diner NJ
Ruth, The Truth, Bob, and The 3-Fingered Man (Talk This, Talk That: Revisited)
It’s happened once again
thirty fives flirtn’
I don’t mind, I’m just goin’ with the jive
Flirting
Her red hair cascading down
And bright red lipstick
Spilling wine on her Asian white dress
Right on her breasts
I’m looking down
at her form
and her modeling hands
Her tight twad tits
as Hacked duck is being served
She drops her tickets
I bend down
Glancing at her legs
Upwards towards her pussy
or maybe just her number
She thinks I want a lay
When all she is, is a drunk
A dumb mother fucker
in an art world she shouldn’t be in
I ask her to model
Thinking about the cauliflower
She cringes at the words I mouth
Makes a face and two and three
I discover her insides
By slipping up her skirt
She admits to me
I leave with my Sam Adams
and say...
“You are a FUCKIN’ RACIST!!”
leaving just okay
Drinking along
Observing the owns
All I have to say
Is goodbye today
Give me the dough
Give me the crackers, the cheese, the grapes
Let’s have a black party
a black tie
I am an artist
I’m going to die
She wanted my cock
She wanted his
But she didn’t want Bobs
And that’s what bothered me that night
She wanted two youngin’s
To wrap her aged legs around
Pumping cocks
but all she got
was a bit of reality
as we were ‘insecure’
I put on my pleasure
and held my bible
remember her fish tails
walk out gleaming
of confusion, lust, and joy
and
I say fuck you
Go to hell
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.01.02:00:02@NYCNJ
Womyn
I know I’m a martyr
With huge concrete walls
Grid steel plates
And outward planks
I’m Lucifer
I bring you hell
Open up my mind
And look under my eyelids
What do you see, scurrying along?
Controlling my thoughts
Entering and exiting
My existence?
Lift me up
See all the womyn
Turning my gears
Using cement to tear down a wall
The chisel stays aside
The hammer stays aside
The womyn climb and fall
The men scale and break their necks
It’s a fort that cannot be told
A prison that I’m forever trapped in
Even though
I wish to dance every dance with you
Take my chains off
Watch my muscles be pulled by the womyn
I want to make (edited) with you
In the midnight sun
My head spins
Full of womyn
And artistry men
Fathers and ghosts
And long last brothers
Climbing water towers
Until I dive
Off
Crying alone
Beauty lives within
Secret lies
And plains for buffalos to roam
Burning inside
© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.12.01.01:01:12@505 NJ