I’m not sure what this poem is about. Perhaps it should be smothered. But there is something of substance in there, I think. I just have to find it. At the end of the day, it is a poem about sex and space. There must be substance in that. 

Bobby tells me space travel is like sex.

First of all, the rocket. While launching, it looks like a giant

dick with a flaming scrotum,

and inside are these bulbous white specimens,

breaking the threshold

of their world

to hurl themselves into the void, that black dimension

where air freezes, and screams cannot be heard.

Tell me (Bobby says) that Jupiter doesn’t look like one giant ovary.

Look, (Bobby says). Ask yourself (he puts a hand on my shoulder),

what do you think it means to plant our flag on other planets,

outer moons? What is the speed of light but a venereal disease?

an enormous cockbluster* that prevents us from transcendence, traversing

galaxies, discovering, enabling, populating, growing. And (Bobby adds,

while pouring liquor in my sweet sweet cup), what is reentry, sir?


but the shameful return after the journey;

the post-drunk, sweating-venom;

the walk home staggering through an alley,

your schlong in your hand, wet and sticky  and pungent from some mistake

you made, which you are still replaying in your head

while pissing into the quiet breeze,

drizzling your appendages and clothes with your own waste?



*CLOCKBUSTER, n. – a blockbuster cockblocker.


Written at 10:23 at night, in the computer lab, in Powell Library, at UCLA, after having my brain fried by four hours of post-war Japanese cinema. 

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