ATTACK OF THE SWAMPMAIDS

Part Two

Swampmaids invade offices

through water and waste,

protected by their amphibious bodies,

shaking off the human sewage with a snarl

as they embark into the cubicles,

injecting psychedelic slime

into corporate computers,

erasing all government files,

poisoning the hearts of heads of state

and sealing their genitals.

Black swampmaids shake fin-clad booty

in ranks atop long conference tables,

dripping radical literature into broken brains,

hypnotizing bosses to walk through

broken windows and smash their skulls

between the painted lines of parking lots.

A few awaken to their torment

and begin to dance along.  They kiss

the foot-fins of the swampmaids

and their veins light up

with swamp psilocybin.

How they long to dissolve

their false identities

in living water.

Now we march together to the swamps

to be fully baptized.  The converts

see the smile on my face: my gills

are beginning to open.

Each opening presents a purple pussy

on my skin.  This is the realm

that dwells in me, not just

the realm that I am dwelling in.

SWAMPMAID ATTACK

The swampmaids slither up

the rainy hills.  They bathe me

in the slime that heals and kills.

It kills the old self that I left behind.

It scuttles that self's last

remaining grime.

They bathe me in the wetness

of their cunts.  We eat the fish

they saved me from their lunch.

We serve the sky's green tendrils

as they climb.  The swampmaids

love it when I dance and rhyme.

They're lighting me on fire

with their talk.  Their anarchy

does not balk where mine balks.

I let them take me further in the dark.

I let them sodomize me in the park.

Their liquid phalluses retract and melt.

They let me melt mine

deep inside themselves.

They open every hole and scream

and scream.  They feel the tadpoles

in my mammal cream.

Our mutant babies soon

will crawl the world.

United states of anarchy

adorn these boys and girls.

The rooted clouds unfurl above

the veins of swampmaid world.

A sheet of water spouts

from a rift in the ground

a living mirror refracts

my inherited cultural self

and scrapes loose the mysterious soul.

I'm drinking through my asshole.

I'm drinking through these

sallow pockmark eyes

from a God-touched Earth

my kind has savaged

with increasingly elaborate error.

Where is the real path to the sky?

It's not through any of their rockets.

The ethereal empties my pockets.

REVOLUTION

Overturn the throne of Christ

in America.  Drive the corporate

capitalists into Hades, leave only

mom and pop shops up and down

each coast, scattered freely

among our humanity.  Tear up

these cruel highways for light rail,

joyous children and bicycles,

communal food-pits and huge

picnic congregations: let us begin

to see one another again.

Bring in the holy heretics

who sacrificed to give us some light,

welcome in our radical elders

without worship to give thanks

for what they sowed, while so

many of us were asleep.

The church we grow together

from this ground

is the church we keep.

No more high elevated priests.

PORTLAND OREGON

Wretched spawn, you need more

suffering.  May your suicide fill the sky.

Your oblivion has become total.

You deserve a hideous death.

Join together in your faint decrepitude.

See how many more abortions

you can cheer for.  Pretend

that your guitars can save the world.

Some Americans prefer their genocide

turned inward: and they think that they

are better than the other kind.

You are the avant garde of nothingness,

and not of art: your hearts are gone

from every clever little thing you do.

PRO NUBIAN ANKH

The snake that was uplifted

is the vein within my form that thrives

the circuits of black anarchism

find it in a mottled hive

my dry bones are resurrected

by the river of blood that's shed

in fearless revolution, constitution

of the streets, of our prophets and our poets,

and the language that they seed

with the fruits of ceaseless struggle

from this shelf life to the next

to the pregnancy of gardens

and their green transcendent end.

PEGGED.

We've already been rimming

each other for about an hour.

Put some sweet vaseline in me.

I'm on all fours, trembling:

my dick is tearing up.

Put on that pretty little pink strap-on,

the one that adorns your female contours

so freakishly and fine.

I'm not ashamed to moan and

beg for it like a girl.  I prefer

to get fucked by a woman.

Let's make sure the strap

gently nudges your swollen clit,

so we can come together.

I can touch myself the way you did

last time I sodomized you.

Please put your dainty little hands

on my hips, stroke my ass

and call me your favorite bitch,

drive it up to the hilt

and pump me good.

I cum so hard that it coats

my whole hand like a milky glove.

Keep it in a minute, let me

praise you and thank you

as I surge in exhaustion.

Gently you withdraw from my asshole

and pat my butt, giving me your compliments

on how gorgeously I took it.

I collapse at your knees,

you pull off the strap

and swipe your wet cunt

with two fingers, sticking

them into my mouth.

I groan with gratitude

and watch as you lick

all the semen from my hand,

smiling.

I think we're married now.

But the ceremony continues:

I can't wait to spread my ass for you again.

ALPHA'S REST

I sit on the concrete block

atop your grave.  I placed it

here to keep your mortal shell

aligned with slow reintegration

into soil, away from scavengers.

Your sisters are alive inside

their pen.  You kept them

safe from harm, and now they live.

I just tossed them some snack seed:

Freckles and Speckles are busy

with it, pecking each particle

from between the little shafts

of sunlit straw.

Little rooster, your bravery lives

in my heart now, and I pray to it

nervously, here beneath

these formidable trees.

Fly with me, little one.  Keep me

company against the tyranny

of my kind.  Roost invisibly

in my ribcage: pluck the poison

from my veins and set me free.

PRACTOPIA*

I brought the buckets

filled with motley grapes.

I brought the albums

shimmering in crates.

Satanism means controlling fire.

Seed and egg survive upon this pyre.

They bomb us and they tear our forms apart:

we gave ourselves already to this art.

Our children know the way that fire feels.

They know the wound collapses time

before that fire heals.

This weal on Earth, we called that civilization.

But in its death we found another nation.

It is a spirit binding us to life.

The strife we feel we don't fear

like a knife.  The harmony we've earned

is hard and real.  Beneath the mask

so borderless and peeled.

The talkers talked but we

made love all night.  We're fucking

to renew our second sight.

Our babies grow and learn

to part the mist.  Their eyes

are angels forming into fists.

*  The title is derived from a talk given by anarchist activist Lorenzo Kom'Boa Ervin entitled 'Those Things that Result in Victories'.  The basic idea is that while utopia is not possible, better life practice is: that revolution and unity in freedom can revive the human spirit towards greatness, if not perfection.  The audacity to link my work with his was inspired by the great Greg Devlin, my mentor and dear friend, who died in 2014 but lives on in his poetry and in all those he inspired.