Joseph Mains


Skinned knees on out his mother’s womb he swore
off women & so it was, at times, willed it so
he fashioned phalo-centripetal core
creation myth bullshit about skeet po
fast talk’n fast fashion shuffle & Myan
calendar apocalyptic fucking
cryptic B/S orbit all we, Sirens,
are are our cum and song said Don, donning
a bildungsroman on his dong and so
coupled, shooped every culture color creed
and grew & grew to love him and them, sow
and bull alike as of his own creamy skeet.
As twink Kurtz would gather disciples round,
so lay them all, and make some slipping sounds.


O one fine day in the middle of June
we moved to Pooptown to both be the groom
and you said Priest, what’s a sugar steak
and can it be my nickname? She: Sugar Steak,
a slabby thing pinker than yr girlfriend’s
girlfriend’s lips. Rare sunshine here makes bend
the palefaces and it’s, as I do say, fine
—as a mustachioed man (marrying kind)
with a watchband. Well says I ‘cos they’re sprung
call me Rose call me Judas ‘cos I’m hung
heavy as a sac of silver. Donny!
Ho! Let’s get slippy—lay down, marry me.

We’ll dance & shout from joy and pain
as guests hear you coo Joseph Fucking Mains.

Joseph Mains was born in the Sonora desert and now lives in Portland, Ore., where he edits Octopus magazine and co-does the reading series Bad Blood.

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