Three Poems by Gordon Massman


Spork's Poetry
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Three Poems by Gordon Massman



I'm not satiated, I want more, give me another, I'm empty,
it was delicious but not sufficient, I need it again, I'm bereft
without it, I know I just had it but it tumbled into a void,
set me up, hit me again, I feel disappointed, pit sick, like
nothing's arrived, pile this one, heaps and gobs, I'm sor-
rowful, crushed having just one, furious and stultified, my
hand craves the source, the infinite source, dishing it up,
I'm tainted, diseased, get away, I'm cruel, obese, my
scream is my gut, my scream my flame, I eat you down
to tallow and shriek more, more build me decadence, a
sky-high volcano of heart-palpitating stuff, pistachio
green, strawberry pink, vanilla bean yellow and heap the
goop, love me if you must with your temperate cup, I'll
go till I erupt and erupting know bottomlessness, what
fucked me as a child double fucked me as a man, blades
at the bottom chop round and round, not unlike some
others who unleash their own interminable howl deep
as Ursa Major and high as Johnny Madness, sweetie pie,
doll baby, construct me one more big as a bathtub with
ladder and kick, and plant a flag at its peak, that I get
so sick all that remains is the mattress and self-hatred.



Wielding a cigarette with a needle sticking out the ash, an
intruder chases my wife who runs naked through unfamiliar
rooms, seizing he jabs the needle into her neck, drugs and
rapes pumping violently with rage, perceiving eyes in para-
lyzed body my wife watches helplessly, alert but voiceless,
a comatose patient receiving malpractice surgery, watch-
es and cannot scream--vaginal lips squeeze the awful prick
whipping, jamming, shooting jism, hairy genitals like mon-
strous tonsils banging her ass, those alien wallpapered
rooms reminiscent of her childhood Victorian long ago
sold to aliens, this needle-bearing cigarette a most dia-
bolical machine, injecting rape victim with novocaine,
like dental patient gums, for the witnessing travesty, filled
with sperm my wife staggers through pitiless rooms, ruin-
ed, to pillows and comforter in a faraway place frothed
with ocean unzipping and zipping warm sand in sun,
pebbles clicking over themselves in infinite profusion,
feet sinking in darkgreen pools, horrid dream, wants to
spit and wash the arrows from her slit, women take what
jams their cunt, behind dumpsters, in minivans, on dirt
roads, in dormitories and operating rooms, staggering
through crops, hallways, dead fathers, churches, episi-
otomys, needle sticking through burning torch and run-
ning naked through unknown rooms smack into the
solid chest of rapist, murderer, comedian, idiot, or god.



Humility and its corollaries pathos and rupture, saith the Lord,
Jesus was an idiot--I ejected him for irrelevance, stupidity, he's
a wastrel, foolish tramp trashing his talents on bums and whores,
I instructed elitism, superiority while floral dreams surrounded
his head, sissy, pushover, the whole bloody trial and crucifixion--
it's almost comical--I meticulously orchestrated for this baptism
escape routes through which to found an invincible military, I
hoped for savagery but received a whipped retreating blood-
less twit clasping pantywaist for comfort, think what prodig-
ious skirt he could have cowered behind had I married, dis-
appointment, quitter, humility and its corollaries pathos and rup-
ture, I repeat, smashed on his receding chin, I've a mind to
dismantle the little shit and kick him to the ash heap but for
sadism, I delight in his diminishment and the multitudinous
lunatic duplicates prostrating themselves complete with dang-
ling crucifix to this Milquetoast! I would beat him senseless
if he weren't abed sucking his big toe, autistically rocking,
I pour a Shmirnoff, lean back, and pity the peewit, always
ran from the ball and adored musicals, got his homo head
wrapped in a thorn bush, and now like a bad fucking penny
he's back contrite for pot pie and cream puffs, I spit on him,
I slapsalt his wounds, I drag him out the mansion door and
blow it shut, embarrassment, drowned rat, he's not my son.

Gordon Massman with a scientist's objectivity has mapped over twenty-one hundred slices of his psyche of which these are a few. He aspires to be the literary human genome project in hopes of revealing as fearlessly as possible aspects of the universal, as well as his own unique, male psychology.