Nicholas Michael Ravnikar
from A Pornographer Reads Catullus
I. THE COTILLIAN
I’ve got a new little book here for you, darling,
although I feel like a dwarf even talking about it
—like I’m blowing a French horn up your ass
for being so special, for acting so stupid all the time.
“Break out the festive meats! Where them ho’s at?”
There used to be a time when we took risks — real
risks. Like that one time the old Italian was boning
the teenage girl and the police broke down the door
to arrest him. “I checked her documents!”
the old man shouted. But he was still pumping
her raw. Government is worse than that,
even if it doesn’t seem so. This and that, this
and that. It’s just a little book of whatever happens
to please you. I’ll whore myself out
as much as anyone for that one waking instant
of everlasting eternity. So go fuck yourself.
II. Sparrow Snatch
You are as alluring as a mean girl
with whom I have sung and done drugs,
upon whose curves I tendered
my index finger in growing appetite
& spurred on to biting, wishing she would
shine my knob, but so ignorant
that her sunshine spot was already
incredibly lubricated. I carry my body
in pain, thinking I am too fat to be sexy,
not knowing that talcum powder
may unleash a yeast infection in her body
as soon as tomorrow. How sad
that she is so comfortable
as a puppet to my desire.
P.S. – She is too polite, and her licorice
flavored nipples are too ripe
to be anything less than evil.
Every zone of her body grows by the day
to more and more imprisonment.
III. Cupid Gave Me Venereal Diseases!
How much of man comes from Venus like dead
sparrows falling from the tree, and how much from virus?
These chicks are so alluring I ignore my mistress
for their honeyed twats. Nora swam
naked as herself, with gonorrhea
waiting in her thighs, swelling her breast
with spoiled milk. Her swim
is such vicious confidence, I know, but I thought
my circumcision protected me from evil.
Looking down at my putrid prick, I see that
I was wrong. One more spell with her
would bring me such relief! All the way, girl
all the way down my wee-wee.
Now in the public streets, Now
in the rural roads, she shakes in her negligee
to bring me back from the ledge
where I want to find calm.
Your friends told you how bad I was.
I can’t believe you’d open up your jaw for me.
That quivering mouth – my sliver
of dessert! I will devour the shining
pink cake until you are scared of abstinence.
O I do my deeds so badly! O you miserable chick!
I’ll work you like a whore for five minutes,
you and your fillet of swollen ruby softness.
IV. The Problem With Male Nurses
I have watched you in your hospital bed
through all the phases of your diseases.
You told me you owned a fleet of Concord Jets
and would trade them for a night
with my youngest daughter. At first,
I wanted to slap that gleam out of your dead eye,
you sick old man. I wanted to slice your dick off
with my knife. But now I see the soiled bedlinens
with proof of your virility and am conflicted.
Should I buy you a whore in the city,
and bring her out here? Perhaps a celebrity
will grant your dying wish. But my daughter’s curves?
The thought is too much for me. What could she do
after being used like that? Her pubic hair
would probably fall out. I would have to kill her,
off course. And you. And bind your bodies together
in a mass of withered flesh and nubile blood.
Oh, the hair of her head! What would the Bishop say
while giving you last rights? And the city
would crucify me, for having given you
your dearest hope: to fuck a princess.
Everything I know tells me to say no,
to stab you for just asking, or at least
throw a pillow over your face. Yet why
be men born but to get hard and want some?
Do we accuse the Marines of incontinence?
They pull so much tail they’re practically impotent
when they get out. Just frail men, leaning
on their canes, jerking themselves limply
with a free hand – until they lose control
and signal up to heaven, saying, “Strike me dead, God!
I’m worthless in my vows to you. Just give me
one good roll in the hay with an unmarried woman!
She doesn’t even have to be a virgin. Just
young enough to get this flaccid thing
in her mouth.” You are a failure, old man.
Now shut up so I can show you these
Polaroid pictures of my wife’s pretty beaver.
V. Porn Movies Are About As Good As Dreams
My sister lives with her Lesbian lover, and keeps
the rumors flying through the editing room sweet.
Everything falls together into one, long money-shot!
We pass out drunk at parties and awake, shouting
“Remember us when perfection falls short!”
Then the night goes unbroken into one long sleep.
I dream of them kissing a thousand sailors
fresh of the decks of a fleet of a hundred ships,
until another thousand come in to go all the way.
The next thousand come to fling shit at them.
Would it disturb you if I said they didn’t argue?
Either we have to agree that everyone’s bad,
or you must submit that this innuendo won’t hold
and that you really just want to join them.
Screwing Carmen for the 6th Time In a Week
<< • >>
My reflection looks a bit like me – delicate,
tho without the cleft lip, and not so ugly.
But it is willing to hear me out, to not be
a prisoner of silence, a lame object of grunting.
Truth is, I’d rather be ignorant
to what the short cold months so laboriously
prove: it is such a shame to create.
Have you ever felt depraved as you
lay at night with nothing to say, but secretly,
soberly certain you can smell the shampoo
in your lover’s hair and equally want
to vomit? This is what weakens me
to the point that I tremble in bed — a shaking
collection of litter, spewing a stream
of immovable arguments in my head.
It feels like perpetual ejaculation
but entails so much more work.
Nothing can be silent, but still
why don’t you shut your mouth while you
stretch out your foot? Our language is only
making a house of fools.
Thus can the state quite maliciously
fuck us over so well. I can only stare
as you so charmingly say you love
to watch the sky when I enter you,
and may I say, the way your tongue
moves when you say so is utterly revolting.
And on the 7th Day We Rested
I wonder how many
people I’ve kissed
since the Lesbian
sat upon my face. I can’t
believe it’s over! There
must be enough
to start a small
company of at least
amid laser light shows
and pictures of
Yet I pray to the gods
and I burn
out of wanting you. I am
perverted, I think,
smacking the dead
ground where you
I want you back now.
I don’t want tonight so quiet.
I don’t want to hide you at all
from all men who would
love to get their hands inside you:
Simply kissing you is like
seeing my own ears
beyond my death.
I could never get enough.
But now it’s over.
On my tombstone write this:
Count not how many
I fucked out of curiosity,
but hold me to the number
that made my jaw