THREE VIRGINS AREN'T WORTH DYING FOR ALLAH!!!

I don't think that even with Viagra

I can get it hard enough to pierce a virgin.

And then there's the blood.

I need a woman with sufficient experience

so I can park my car in the garage

without scraping the sides.

I need sufficient maneuvering space,

Once I can rev up the engine,

I stick it in gear and we're off to the races.

I don't think virgins are built

for either speed or comfort.

I'm partial to the models

that have only had a few owners,

but then there are those

who have been driven hard

and can really accelerate.

With the top down,

they take your breath away.

INCOMPREHENSIBLE

 Since I understand nothing,

I have a predilection

for incomprehensible poems.

Perhaps that's the reason we have endured:

I find you incomprehensible.

THE DAY BEFORE I UNEXPECTEDLY DIE

 Everything is one big, fuckin' lie

and you know it 

because you have always lived it.

And then there are 

the constant worries

about the children 

besides the drinking 

and the drugs

and the financial concerns

and the failing health 

and a million other things.

Where is the peace?

There is no fuckin' peace!

It's all illusion and delusion

inevitably wrapped in death.

I look at my children

and I see death

staring at me in the face.

I could write a thousand other things

and hopefully I will,

unless death gets me first.

I could write

a series of short, dark poems

on this rainy day,

but I probably won't

because my nerves are shot

and I can't count on you

for some dirty sex now,

which would offer me 

a brief respite

from this pounding headache.

Should I take another Xanax?

The first one isn't working.

I'm not going 

mano-a-mano 

with you.

I'm venting.

It isn't personal. 

How does thinking about the deaths

of our children reflect on you?

I'm allowing 

the dead matter

in my head

to pour out 

of my mouth.

I can't be happy 

and optimistic

all the time.

Would you rather 

I text someone else?

Since you're not here to provide me

with a temporary refuge deep in your pussy,

I will take that other Xanax

and seek my escape through sleep.

I'm riding a wave.

I hope I don't drown.

I give thanks that I'm retired

and I can comfortably wrestle

with the devil in my bed

unless he pokes a hole 

in my inflatable mattress

with his horns or his tail.

Maybe I'll take all my texts

and write one long poem a la T.S. Eliot.

Only my commitment to art

can possibly lift me out of bed

as I lie here weighed down

with yet another hangover.

I think I have my long,

perhaps rather disjointed, poem.

Let me know if you're visiting 

in the afternoon, 

so I can take a Viagra.

Anticipating a good, hard fuck

gives me hope.

I want you to agree

to consensual rape

because the sex

will be that nasty.

I think the second Xanax is working.

I'm beginning to feel better.

New title:

The Day Before I Unexpectedly Committed Suicide.

Your suggestion is humorous:

The Day Before I Lost My Mind.

Based on your many years

of first-hand observation,

deleting "unexpectedly" has merit.

I've appreciated your insights

during our time together,

almost as much as 

I have appreciated 

ravishing your body.

Done.

THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE

 Whenever I think about the loser you were banging 

when we separated, I tremble with anger.

Whenever I think about the loser you were banging 

when we reconciled, I tremble with anger.

Whenever I think about the losers you were banging 

between our separation and reconciliation, I tremble with anger.

Whenever I think about the losers you were banging 

before I met you, I tremble with anger.

Whenever I think about the losers you were banging 

when we first met and I was the third guy 

you had banged in three weeks, I tremble with anger.

You say that you are a modern woman.

I say that you are an immoral woman.

Blinded by your bestial instincts,

you don't respect the law of the jungle.

A man is raised on a pedestal

with each woman he may slay,

but a woman is cast into a pit

if she is an easy lay. 

UN CULO CHULO

 Una chula

gave birth

to un chulo

after she gave

her culo

to another chulo.

ODE TO MY THREE SONS (NEW ADDITIONS BEGIN ON THIS DATE)

 My sons

are the three suns

in my sky.

When I close my eyes

and die,

I hope to hear them cry.

FLINT

 If I could rub my balls together

and produce a flame or two,

I might fill my wife

with a burning passion

that would leave

both of us scorched

and smelling of smoke.

The loving might

get so hot her pubic hairs

would burst into an inferno.

Our consummation

would end

in a huge conflagration.

With hose in hand,

could I extinguish the blaze

or would the combustion

ignited by cock and cunt

remain an explosion

smoldering in a haze?