Nicholas Michael Ravnikar

from A Pornographer Reads Catullus

.             .


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

mediocre kissers,

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

are entombed.

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

bewitch language.

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