Steven Porter

“The Town of Anarchy Has a Single Working Light Bulb”
Right now, a man sits at his computer and tugs his
fossilized, skull-penetrating, immalleable clay cock.
There’s one light bulb left, illuminating clits
queefing in Korean. All other bulbs were
stolen sometime during a nocturnal carnival by
nympho-tourists capable of sneaking
sunlight in their electronic muffs.
The grandfather clock’s hands sting
like baby scorpion tales (the young man’s only
defense against these thieving, horny outsiders).
His balls rattle like calcium dice in a
skinny transvestite’s bony hand.
Near-sighted gods are watching
him with their prescription glasses
and high-powered binoculars: (Everyone
is a pervert when temptation tickles you
with a silk feather). After ejaculation, he
lifts up his pants and smiles at passing
dragonflies, rubbing their crunchy cleavage.
“To Loathe and Love Las Vegas”
It’s true Mr. Thompson, this is where the American Dream ends.
Many of friends have had their dreams squashed in New York,
Boston, Chicago and ended up back here. The bats weren’t in your
head, sir, I saw them too, but in Vegas we call them floor bosses.
Scorpions, snakes, and coyotes have all found their way to
Fremont Street. They pinch, bite and ensnare the American
Flag’s thinning cloth and drag it along bare, naked tits and asses,
getting fresh cum all over it. I’ve got an acid craze and I can’t get
enough of it! Cars swing by with more gyrating pussy than one
can handle. Like Jello Biafra said, “Gonna have me some money
if it costs me my very last dime.” Almost every bar and casino
doubles as a strip club; girls dancing in cages, their breasts busting
out of their Steam Punk outfits. It’s no wonder my cock is in a constant
state of attention? Half the men walk around with their hands in their
pockets (They’re most likely masturbating). There are orgies on every corner:
fingers in asses, cunts and urethras, mouths sucking cocks and clits,
lapping up pubic hair, glitter, whiskey, vodka and every other kind of
alcohol vomited up by fatass, caustic cowboys, Asian Elvis impersonators,
tourists with deep pockets, holes in pockets, and no pockets.
Neon Goddesses spread their legs and lick their lips to distract
you long enough for a vagrant midget to pick your pocket.
Vegas’ history is homeless and abandoned on the town’s
outskirts, not far from homes that couldn’t be gentrified.
Cacti watch their brothers and sisters uprooted, stuffed
and placed in “The World’s Largest Gift Shop” with price tags.
Slot junkies can get their fix at grocery stores so they can
spend their baby’s milk and food money on location.
The Strip isn’t any fun when the sun boils early morning-hookers
and you have to worry about stepping in bubbling jizz and puke piles.
Maybe we can hit up the Peppermill and find a hungover lawyer
slumped over his ashy scrambled eggs? I’m sure he’s useful for
something other than getting schizophrenic drunks out of county jail.
Mr. Thompson, why don’t you come back and see us sometime?
Drive Carefully and don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of ether,
flyswatters to keep those fucking bats away, call girls on
speed dial and an extra American Flag you can use as a blanket.
“Searching for Another Handout”
Hope-famished pets left out in a rain’s aftermath
in a season of dry apricots
brawl on the railroad tracks with dry, rough paws
searching for prey drowned out by Mosaic floods.
Cats head to the rail yards to rest in the warmth of bourbon-puddles.
Masterless dogs wake with dry bone hangovers;
a human passerby offers an empty, nail-bitten hand
to the lanky, collar-strapped animal.
It struggles to rise, knots in its hair, to search for another handout
someplace where the sun delays its rise.

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