MISCELLANEOUS POETRY

PAN 

 

You must listen

I catch this male apparition

Nude and healthy and animal-legged

Taunting for the hunting

 

It is down below I feel you

It is there I hear your song

 

You are in my sleep

I come for you in the morn

I need you to show me nature

More than just this wooded glen

 

It is down below I feel you

It is there I hear your song

 

I’m riddled with this

I’m riddled 

I can dance

I can be a woman

I can be a little girl

I can be an animal

I can scream louder than you can

I need you Pan

I will lick your hindquarters clean

Take me, I plead

It is down below I feel you

It has been two thousand years

 

You must listen

Winter will soon thin the wood

And my sleeps will grow deeper

And I will find you

INCINERATED CHAPBOOKS

By Marc Brüseke and Karina Bush 

Burn the Candle at Both Ends Until the Wick Falls to the Rug and Sets the House on Fire

A Penis is Not a Therapy Pet

Speeding Down Darkened Roads With The Headlights Switched Off Hoping For The Best

At Bingo with my Granny on Speed

Photographs of William Burroughs using a flamethrower on a wooden door 

Stigmata from Handjobs in Church: Irish Teenage Folklore

Ulysses Book 2: Or, The Savage Odyssey Of A Yorkshire Gentlemen

Fantasies about pushing Stephen Hawking down the stairs 

Firing a .357 Magnum with Reckless Abandon

Fantasies don’t make Babies 

Gravel Donkey Fuck Party

Headbutting pensioners for walking slow 

Exploding Frog Cigars

Puking Hairballs because he doesn’t love me 

What’s my purpose Rodrigo Alves?

Dickpop Meatball

I cried at a Peter Andre concert and other tales from prepubescence  

Oven-baked French fry fist fucks 

Exposé: The Harvey Weinstein of the Small Press 

Lusty in the vegetable aisle… and as he climbed into bed he realised he’d forgotten to fetch the children after school

Theory of Sexually-Transmitted-Spasmosis 

The Giant Purple People Eater

The Song of Sperming: God Hung Suspended His Cum Abounding 

Core Data Manipulation Engine

Julian Assange Fever in an Airport Lounge

Lapdancing Upwards into Space

THE FIELD 

Alone with him

No eyes but mine

The hum of his marrow

Only perceptible

When their grey monied eyes

Are turned away

From his function

 

And so I move closer

And the wheat heaves

And it swells

And the poppies seep

And the butterflies drink the flowers

And lightly fuck

Drunk in the Sun

 

And the ants carry jewels

For Queens

And reincarnation

All the insects know

And the light of decomposition knows

And the soil rumbles

And his soft bread mouth opens

And his wheatsheaf glistens

PROBE

 

A flow—male milk

For me

He is emptied of it all

I am new

 

He showed before I 

Contracted

Risen in spirit

I am alone 

 

Then I probe

Him—nothing

I must follow

I must delve 

 

Then I probe

Slot onto the cord

Settle there

Engorge 

RUNNING

I'm running away

I tremble

Squeal and squirm

Like a little pig

Getting caught 

By the farmhand

A young man

Ten times my strength

A young man

In the prime of his youth

A young man 

With a firm hand

Doing the things 

The old farmer can't

© 2020 by Karina Bush