This crazy vision of mine.


The stillness of the room is
gently broken by the first stroke
of the young concertmaster’s baton.
Onstage, the unfolding curtain of flesh
slowly reveals the
rising stamen of Ganymede.
Life force swells: the crescendo é accelerando
of aching muscles and rallying corpuscles
soon cheer on an intimate pas de deux
between hand and penis.
At once, the ritual fountain catapults
stars and comets in a
grand feu d’artifice.
How suddenly the triumphant applause of
body and emotion dissipate into silent shame
as the youth wipes away the seed
of the aborted fetus.


Two machines work in tandem to
transport the newcomer to his
destination: the Incoming Arrivals
terminal, some 60-feet away.
One is called Body: a
miraculous mechanism of impulses
and veiny cylinders which pumps
sparks of inertia into otherwise
lifeless organs and limbs.
Another has assumed the name Escalator:
a complex simple machine, whose
sleek metal and plastic components
derive their electricity from a
brain unaffected by emotion and the
undependable workings of the spleen.
Together, these two brains scheme
to smuggle Body from plane to
terminal without arousing its
potential security risk:
the emotional system.
Body’s eye-apparatus fixates
upon the fourth wall,
noting neither destination
nor landscape in-between.
Brain sends Body impressions
of Elevator and simultaneously
commands to “search and find.”
Spleen sleeps, sufficiently
blinded by Eyes (and too
sophisticated to implement the
long-since devolved functions
of Ears and Nose).
Vessels pump … gears spin;
and Eyes notes a multitude of
peer-bodies assuming similar
movements; a signal is sent to
Brain, with press releases to
Body: “Everyone is doing it.
Ergo, it must be right!”
Body moves toward Escalator
with gusto; and Spleen awakens
abruptly when Escalator
chuckles “gotcha!!!”
But the hopelessness is not
fully understood until Spleen
realizes that Body is alone
in the stream of fast-walking
zombies, guided by Eyes’ robotic
gaze … and overhears the one-way
laughter of Escalator, who
neither sputters nor flinches.

(The preceding poems are from “Collected poems and stories”.)


Hhhjaaahh … skål!
For glede … og
forføreriske hipp hopp —
ghettorytmer som
tvinger mitt hjerte
til å synge, og mine
stramme lender til å
svinge … fønky!!! Jaaaahh …
Virkelig svinge; uhh høhhh …
så intenst at
muskelvevene mine får
huden til å sprekke
av oljeglatt svette
som renner, nei —
siver …
hemningsløst, og
uten samvittighet
… langt nedover …
(ikke stopp) …
mot min ventende …
den rykker noe jæææævlig
med musikken) …
mot min svære,
og sjelfulle
“Skal vi legge oss snart,

(The preceding poem is from “Three-legged Waltz”.)


‘Real’ briefly becomes surreal,
through transference;
flashbacks of earlier moments —
long since filed away on
my mental hard-drive:
from the first teenage ejaculation to
secret college dorm circle jerks, and
more-recent ‘delurked’ web chats.
Our momentary glimpse in passing
awakens all those lost memories
and more … yeah …
relentless fever; overtaking us
both — albeit individually, and
intentionally confined to our own
private memories and fantasies —
We meet … just for a few minutes …
and briefly exchange a
kaleidoscope of potential
experiences — fueled by
instant recall.
The scent of my own fresh semen
on my genitalia, chest and chin
inundates the moment and
my last thought as our eyes
finally avert one another is:
“Scoop it up!”


Sex me up … real good!
I’m following every word
in our web chat … looking
for every possible perambulation;
all double-meanings and
cleverly-veiled suggestive remarks.
But don’t get too direct with me, and
I don’t want to know your problems;
you must never interfere with
my attraction to the fisted fantasy
that gives me ultimate satisfaction:
the ‘other world’ you think that we create
together, but which I (myself)
both covet and selfishly desire to own
entirely and solely.
You know the rules … you know the game;
now sex me up — real good!


I was just about to successfully
pull off a ‘premature evacuation’
when the goddamned computer announced
“You got mail!”;
thus waking my sleeping partner.
After lying and saying I was
just going to get a glass of water,
he turned over and returned to his snoring.
I sat up awake …
wondering what his important
e-mail message was.
“We can get you a bigger penis!”
I crawled back into bed,
quietly singing to myself
about the fifty ways …

(The preceding poems are from “Gaytude”.)


I lie on the sofa — half-asleep in a wet dream,
my body lubricated with sweat and the
room pungent with the imagined scent of
dripping man-cunt and semen.
The ringing of the telephone disrupts my fisted dance
with an impudence that only can be described
in four- or five-letter words, and a disturbing
feeling comes over me — somehow
I know that something is amiss —
this crazy vision of mine offers no
humane release; there is no humanity
anymore — only the immorality of
so-called ‘morality’ and idleness.
They say that idleness is the work of
the Devil, yet society binds us to
television and global propaganda
ranging from politics to advertising:
a sadomasochistic mind control.
Big Brother is not watching us —
we have become Him willingly,
embracing uniformity and ratting
out suspected dissidents — be they
enemy or friend, neighbour or mother.
I pick up the receiver and before
I manage to grunt ‘hallo’ I hear
a husky breathing sound —
not quite panting, but a
relentless deep-seated
emanation evolving from
the caller’s spleen.
After two minutes of mutual
breathing into the receivers,
I excuse myself to go get
a cigarette, and we continue
our duet — my caller singing
the baseline while I willingly
exhale the melody.
When my suitor abruptly
hangs up the telephone
I fall back onto the sofa,
finally spent — and
immediately depressed.
I cannot get the experience
out of my mind.
It is forever embedded in my libido
and I will never again be the same.

(The preceding poem is from “Entre Nous”.)

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