Solving For X
I slipped a disc
mistaking its curved
edge for a nickel
one I needed for a gumball machine
possibly containing encapsulated slips of paper
on which were written taunts about my manhood
collectively comprising a wisdom book
much like one I found hand-painted on a Mayan codex
only smaller
a disc threaded on
a strand
of the beaded curtain
that a hookah gangster
with resin on his fingers
and pockmarks on his half-mask
parted in a gin parlor
in which sat a prostitute
whose concupiscence smelled like apricot jam
the fancy kind in a slim jar
she said every man has mommy issues
it’s just a matter of degree
and as we coupled
I wept in her arms like a child
a heap of quarters no longer rattles
in the cup holder of my car
shaking like the bones
of my regret
at having loved the wrong girl
at the right time
or vice versa
if I became a great lover, it’s because I had no idea
what I was doing and so took my cues from kinesiology
the eschatological science wherein hygiene and rot
battle for primacy
like sumo wrestlers
gone lean after gastric bypass
surgery
they wrestle by instinct and habit
but their hearts are no longer in it
the fat has been subtracted
thus vanishes the collective
coital dissatisfaction of our age in which
pornography
smells like a fresh coast of shellac
and divinity smells like bleach
prognosticators
roll the phrases fuckalicious and junk bonds
in their mouths
like a jawbreaker
deliciously sour
but with the texture
of the world’s smallest meteorite
one created as a prank
never meant to be consumed
like sex it threatens to break your teeth
all the while promising pleasure
an erotic poem
is one containing
all the letters of
the alphabet
when I compare the steel orbs
and flippers of
pinball
to a constellation
of supernovas
and dying stars
I’m just saying that all the poets in
history
were simply observing the obvious
when they looked up the skirt
of the dark lady
only to find a luminous orb
filled with the same sacred liquid
that skaters adore
in glow sticks at the roller rink
ergo the infatuation with extrapolating
love from female anatomy
rather than the reverse
my girlfriend called me a sex machine and only later did I realize
she didn’t mean it
as a compliment rather she implied the machine in the garden
which makes perfect sense
and is in fact a compliment
but only if taken literally
that is to say
as the basis for a metaphor
when I count to three
I expect
all of my selves
to stand up
and cry out the obvious axiom that x means ecstasy
whereas XXX despite popular opinion means
the unknown
a sequence of variables
without an answer
therefore seductive and irresistible
did I sweat from performance anxiety
or was that only the aroma of
a box of expired frankincense
which you can now
buy online
and ship direct
to its destination
cutting out the middleman who despite
his tardy neurosis has the gall to ask for a tip
I love her
I mean my 14th girlfriend
because she constantly reminded me
while I performed cunnilingus |
on her relatively
decorous snatch
that love is only
an equation
in which each
partner
adds up
to a sum
as yet to be determined
ergo she suggested I forgive
my adulterous father
for all his transgressions just as
I would need to be
forgiven
further down the line
solve for x
when x means vacancy
I’m not sure when
it became fashionable
to destroy your marriage
because I’m always the last to know
I’m a chip
off the old block
when block is understood
as a super-hardened
and synthetic
form of granite that can
only be damaged
by the wrong-headed
telepathic impulses
of a slut-bucket prophet
or his surrogates
because let’s face it
everything is outsourced
these days even pagan shtick
reminiscent
of those pop romance songs
that rhyme
self with shelf
not due
to low morals
or paucity of imagination
but in order
to avoid
feminine rhymes
Whupass Roundelay
The archer has no wax for his twine
the musician no string for the mandolin
and the standup comedian
who rehearsed to make jokes
about the fact that he’s Asian
now suffers from aphasia.
Pass, pass the can of whupass.
The gecko holds fire in its limbs
like a beautician in a Cross-fit gym
but the runner who trained
and laced up Adidas
to outrun the speeding drone
found in her shoe a stone.
Pass, pass the can of whupass.
An Uber driver’s cherubic
as he dreams of creamed chicken in aspic
but his customers, spastic
track his route on their phones
and magnolia trees flower
by the second, the minute, the hour.
Pass, pass the can of whupass.
In every bar across America
a fight will break out at midnight
while the bartender reads the Baghavad-Gita
wherein bowmen fight for the Dharma Yudha.
Protected by Bhima, emboldened by Zima
they’ll strive for the souls of the senseless.
Pass, pass the can of whupass.
While I was curating my selfies
an angel came to witness my bliss
and we exchanged the sign of the cross
between us, as one who knows
he is insubstantial but doesn’t care
and he smoothed a knot in my hair.
Pass, pass the can of whupass.
Sleep softly, there are no signs and wonders
no blood, nor billows of smoke and fire
only a forty per cent chance of doom.
So dance, dance a mazurka
while moonlight falls on the tall valet
who shoe-taps the beat of the roundelay.
Pass, pass the can of whupass.
Johnny Payne’s work has recently appeared in Neon Door, Gasher Journal, Sparks of Calliope, Society for Classical Poets, The Chained Muse, and Soundings East. His most recent published novels are THE HARD SIDE OF THE RIVER and CONFESSIONS OF A GENTLEMAN KILLER, which won the IBPA Gold Medal for Horror in2021. His books of poetry VASSAL and HEAVEN OF ASHES were published by Mouthfeel Press. He has directed his plays DEATH BY ZEPHYR and CANNIBALS for Slingshot Players, Los Angeles.
The Collidescope 