dog eat dog

by Damon Hubbs

There are too many poems, too many paintings

too much to masturbate to. 

I’m calvary red

and you called my cock

Little Sparta that day

at the department store cafe.

I dawdle in my pants

each time your big brass lips

awaken; I trespass

in Palm Court, most dear.

Say it: Edwardian baddies are fun,

the all girls gun club,

barefoot runaways and dolls at the Diplomat,

drug runs —Glasgow

1951. 

I took the elevator to the making of the monster

the sparkly splendid,

the all-over abstracted. Thou art sick, they said.

Men of leisure piss vin blanc,

pop crimes, dog eat dog

between your thighs.

You should see the face they make

when you skipper heavy loads,

when I burn the scow from stern to bow

and put a seahorn in my hair.

Now I’m living in Spain,

happy to be aimless. Fuck you, Pierre Reverdy.

Goodbye sheep lady from Algiers. 

The DUH-duh meter snarls and spits,

priez pour nous.

Click here to read Damon’s bio.