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Three Poems

Julian T. Brolaski

Fuck Me Harder Sonnet 2
Fuck me harder, leave the haters behind
As you know I am a slut for leisure
Arrest me on the mountain top’s incline
For I’ve klepted when I ought to please your
Neglected epic skin, and pull your hair.
When the ladies call my pigtails prairie
Step in, honey, and set the gender fair
Put me in a suit and call me Mary,
Transcoping this girl’s grist or that girl’s scope.
Holy monogram, how you like to tease,
Tender cufflink, I’m hurting for the grope
That sets my alpha at its churlish ease.
So strap me to the bed and knife my garter
Until I’m screaming baby fuck me harder.
On Salome, After Discovering First-Hand Mary is a Virgin
                Genius mixd too strong a cup…but we are bearish magickers.  -Duncan
The rack of spelling
doesn’t bind me nor
pronouncements of Holofernes
nor pulchritude a figure,
but the love of a well-trained girl.
Laid to ruin by
timid forest animal!
Stern schoolmistress!
Wrong, miscreant pupil.
What would Salome do?
I bid thee truck to like we fuck
with wheels all greased,
bare as to a midwife.
I really freaked and stuck my hand in there.
Like raking cake across the coals
in chains I believe myself compelled.
I remember the debonairest of you
rolling spliffs
or watching darts
hosanna, utterly laughable.

my arctic hushpuppy, my gay sailor

come to pick your berries harsh and crude.  –John Milton

This youth of golden opinions, being illiterate, marks his X. I must make this my last moorings,

and my gel and undershirts, deeply confessional, abate my allegience to the sailor lifestyle. His

trainstopping the word November. Making free with the Italian model, the single summer shower mano à mano.

If the muse herself had been able to save her son Orphee, would we think ourselves more floral? We must

leave these steaks. The dark part of the pear, coughing for its saccharine. There is no “frigate propriety.”

The sailors laced stringless—we found our guitar slanted left—not like our cocks, which rightways bent no

nearer shipshape. We forestall this virtuous parody, but it doesn’t make the ass rounder or the cheek

softer. Don’t think my lay plummeted or that the plank survived victoriana, edwardiana, elizabethiana 2.

Now we prove ourselves more circle jerk. Something bluesy howls, something aggregate masculism.