by Louie Crew
1
Mom, I’m only playing with my beads
of Quaker-popped sperm shot from worms
on an Asian bank of pubic reeds,
a double-dog Moses who never feeds
his mind on ultra-aggressive needs:
for I am dying this year.
2
Why are you staring at me?
Reality is more than what you see.
I’ll fuck your mind mortally
before you charge an ugly fee
for scratching […]