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 Post-Modern Aphrodite

 My dugs sag.  It makes me sad./ Silicone's too hard.  Gives me heart burn./ Love has abandoned me./ My gender's in infirmity./  I'm like a frozen spitoon/ Whose womb's been hysterectomied./ Love in the age of post-modern art/Is what mysogynists heckle me./  My modesty's on fire/ Like a stakeholder in C-level cunt,/ A goddess of desire whose old hormones dig lust,/ Climbing the stairs to the Prophet's twelfth bint,/ Forgive me now, while I slip into a hard-on coil of misanthropoid dicks./ I need a metamorphic rock sex-change,/ to achieve a #MeToo trans-gender erection.  


Esse Redux in the Fane

  How do you know when you fall in love?/ Who is the first to steal away the gloom?/  How can one know the switch is sewn for sure?/ An electron spooks the lid from off the tomb?/ And I arise from the crypt of life,/ A flower in the winter of my expiration cwm?/ It's so crazy, and the messages that we sent/ Have been delivered without speaking/ But by protocol that's perfectly chaste/ And violates no solemn oath or vow,/ But clinches me inside your secretness/  And makes me pant like a moonbeam pulsating/ The tingle of peyote that glistens on the glow/ Of a yearning for a starveling's rhapsody in your forbidden arms?  2/17/2019 

Write your soul in the cholesterol of your hungering vice./ Few of us can paint the hollow carapace of our insect life.  1/24/2019

 Hardtack Hungerjowl

by James Richard Lucas (c) 11 Feb 2019

What have I got to sell?  What do people want?

What are homo sapiens willing to shell out for?

Something that I've got, some shell-it-out peanut shuck?

A fortune cookie full of wit that I can hustle,

Some little morsel, some commercial tidbit,

Some canape made-of-nothing I can parade,

That will keep me alive till the sun comes up

Another day?  Lest I die, lest I starve,

And my family too, and I fall in the Dumpster

Like  wanton failure stuck in woe.

I have to think and grasp the wizard ring

To toss into the list of mundane cash

And seize the chrematistic truth

That is a crust bread, the joy that scares off Death. 

The Drain of Shame 1/19/2019

 1. The penis, the inguinal regret of many a man's woe,/ 2. Won't get you spunk at the junk man's store./ 3. It sows many a seed, not oats to boast, but prickly tares,/ 4. Any man would trade away, if he could, for fresh-cleaned underwear./ 5. Too bad, too late, that seed has turned into child support,/ 6. Backed up by bailiffs and judges in pay-stubbed family courts,/ 7. That humiliate his manhood with never-ending child support./ 8. That will steal his life and leave him poor, a working stiff./ 9. His reward for investing in the wrong cash box of lust and short-term bliss./ 10.  Young man, guard thine jewels from #MeToo; it ain't no joke;/ 11. The kids on welfare who never had no dad,/ 12. Grow up the same, even if their mother was a whore; it takes two to make a baby. 13. But it takes a man to make a family.  No child can raise himself./ 14. Some men stand upright.  Don't you piss your honor down the drain. 

War Song of the Poet Riders 1/11/2019

1. There is something about an eardrum that loves a song that's made of lyrics,/ 2. That loves the flow and sound of imagery that stands upon its feet and skips./  3. A sculpted whistle of a gesso that whirs and smiles a bit from the throttle of the throat,/ 4. That turns the wheezing breath into a human breeze of musicality/ 5. That riffles through the leaves of trees and puts a crown on the majesty of happiness/ 6. By interweaving notes and rhyme and rhythm of the  poet's toolbox, wrought in fleeting time,/ 7. To make a tantivy of hope and ecstasy that gallops faster than a thoroughbred synecdoche can trample down the racetrack line./ 8. And as he beats the crop upon his horse, and as the songbirds essor to the sky,/ 9. The poet craftsman-jockey stands in the stirrups and leans into the withers of his racing rhyme,/ 10. And prays to the Muse Euterpe to keep him in the saddle until he scores the finish tape/ 11. And wins the laurel of the iambic pentameter song-rider who won the race!/  12. Glory to the troubadour who rides for fame and fane!  Glory to the heroes on verseback/ 13. Who scathe the terrorist janjaweed of civilization./ 14. All praise and honor to the poets who save us from the demons' Zamzam perverse!

Black Lives Matter (2018), US Copyright TXu 2-105-076

 Wada'an Robin Williams, by Winters Johnson (pseudonym)) (10/22/2015), US Copyright TXu 2-016-379 (2016), 42pp, 11,000 words

Hadith Min Jim Muhammad (4/22/2015), US Copyright TXu 2-016-379 (2016), 34pp, 7000 words

Poems below from  Jinar Al-Malk to There'll Always Be Tara, are copyrighted as Hueco (11/11/2014), TXu 1-944-041 

Jinar Al-Malk: The Valley of Fire ((9/1/2014), 49 lines, 6400 words

Dawgs (12/6/2014), 32pp, 7600 words

The Waco Hymn (3/21/2014), 45pp, 15000 words

Aunt Peggy's Rock Drill of Freedom, by Jimi Tha'lab (pseudonym), (11/6/2014), 7pp, 1800 words

A Prayer ffor Grace from Phoky  (10/24/2013), 15pp, 3500 words

Lance Cpl. Frodyte's Bully-Doux No. 6 (10/7/2013), 5pp

The Song of Sorrow's Sow/Oinkywoinks/Thoughts on a Pig's Complaint (12/10/2014), 27pp, 5200 words

Witches (3/21/2014), by Oscar Vernyat (pseudonym), 35pp, 9500 words

There'll Always Be Tara, 11pp, 2,200 words

My Dominatrix (6/17/2017)

I love my dominatrix.  She gives me piece of ass;/

She lets me know who is boss among the dildo class./

When I am insuborddinate, when I am out of line,/

She whips me into shape, and, oh! it feels sublime!

My domme, she makes me happy.  My queen, she makes me glad!

When I'm naughty, she never fails to punish me.  It thrills me to be bad.

The Patriot (11/14/2015), 2pp, 39 lines, 400 words, contained in  Nezhenka (2016), US Copyright TXu 2-016-379 

Penelope (11/5/2013), 39 lines, 450 words

Copyright 2013 James Richard Lucas

"What is the hard and soft of love?" said the goshawk to the Owl.

Laying Topo, bleeeding, wriggling, and not quite dead, at the feet of his Love.

"And what is the Blood and Soul of Love--" Owl answered slowly,

Taking up the oblation by the tail into her beak, "Without Fire?"

The torches flickered in the night like wills-o'-the-wisp.

"O, where is the Harp and Scepter?  And where is Dance divine?

And where is the psalter who prays upon this chord of Mine?

And where is this sustenance that will quench and quaff my burning urn?"

"Owl, fain I did not know you had such a seething troth,

But prithee, tell thy equestrian hero, What is found with Loss?

And what is Error without Straight?  What is arrow without Mark?

And what is Mitten without Mate?  What is Essor without Flight?"

He bowed and his Interlocutor digest and contemplate.

The Bird of Mien did not blink and did not shed a tear.

Her eyes were yellow, jaundiced, grapevined old, and irised red--

Red as the blood that dripped from Mauschen's head.

The feathers around her orbits fringed as a daisy wilted dead,

From the tears of longing, the longing of a stoic dread.

Two birds in love with beaks that cannot kiss

Live in a purgatory of ecstasy that no one knows,

And who must bite their tongues and low their heads.

They eat their sacrifices, to sustain their hearts,

And intercourse their blood ethereally in a race.

The Hawk preened his Mistress' face  She licked her chops.

"Your woof is my pelisse of grandeur, Dame," he said,

"Through which it is my pleasure to shuttlecock my weft

To weave my tale upon your meurtrissure with my plume.

I will be youur comb and tine your pinions into a bird brigade!

I will lay down my cloak that we may cross the fosse together

As Virgil and Beatrice raced up the Mountain into the crystal spheres."

"O Bird!  You're floss-full of splanchizimata, flatterer!"

"No, I mean it, Owl, but you must wait for me!"

Suddenly they heard the bugle sound from a far-off legion,

And the Warrior had to fly into the gold mauvais dawn.

The Goshawk looked down and circled like a living drone

And disappeared into the clouds, an undaunted saint.

And, at every commo wheep and tink of heaven,

The Maiden Fowl marr-armored waits and weaves and unweaves

Her plaited tears, a font of honor in a wilderness devoid of grace.

Wings of Shiloh (2012)


Copyright July 11, 2012 James Richard Lucas

The nerve of leadership is not freeze-brained;

It takes the draw of red-celled fate and applies the sting of intellect

Like a surgeon scalpels ope a womb to bring forth life,

Or a crippled warrior coughs up the debt-blood strife

Of a country pledged to cheap out the cost of sacrifice;

It collects the nation's honor in a skull case upside-down

And wrings out the cost of a billion red-ink stains

With TOW-rim glasses and ice-gleyed sips

Of whiskey sours after-hours in Manhattan suites

For a few frisson moments with a trophied witch--

"Econometrics mascara-lashed inside a Sino Box."

Predicts the mandarin advisor in the West Wing hall,

Before the market crashes, following the dysfunction

Of a moving squiggle on a soothsayer spinner,

"So my advice," the Reignmaiden said, "Is to sell the sink

Before the Ship of State turns Temple Doom from gold to lead,

And the country finds the CEO is drugged, a sodden-head."

"Thank you, thank you," says the king to hhis tergiversate vizir,

"Now core off Adam's apple and post it on the spear

For all to see in Flack Jack's clouded Cipher's Sphere."

Democracy takes such a supple wrist of a tyrant's guile

To keep leal the irrumate kiss of an ADHD rank-and-file,

Whose long-term promises must be kept in the Afterwhile.

Sigh.  "Never sigh in public," the Sovereign remonstrates.

"Wrens will take it as an Inside-Crumbbal hieroglyph."

In cowards the blood is thick; it coagulates in the foul air of politics

And suffocation chokes off the subtle breath,

And reason dies before the new young Caesar ever cries--

When the people yearn to hear the fire of truth,

A sutra in a blanket receives a thousand deaths

Upon the abortion of a pimp host of platitudes.

The people yearn, and distraught parents, their sorrow burns;

Fire is the only way to cauterize the politicians' barking lies

A murder of carrion-eaters fills the nation's skies,

As the conventioneers gather to pull the train

Of the royal house of Herod's sacks and things;

Long may the lyres sing of the triumph of the health-care king!

And crown him with the horns of Judas' goat

In a mock re-iteration of the Holy Ghost--

Thus, the laurel of leadership descends unseen

Behind this Paraclete of guns and Bibles and angels' wings

Debbie Fields, America's First Lady of Desserts (1997), 14-line sonnet


Debbie Fields keeps America going in her TV kitchen,

Whipping up a confection of nineteen fifties' used-to-be,

Wielding an electric five-speed wand about a mixing bowl,

Chock with batters, goos, and doughs, she coos and gurgles,

Dove-like (though divorced), hearth-worn with recipes of decency:

All-American apple pie, fluffy white Anglo-Saxon cake,

Chewy nonesuch cookies, all a-chip with chocolate-rich

Sincerity.  Sugary, blonde, and sweet, luscious as a Playboy

Centerfold.  Draped in mother's apron, America's leading icon

Of domestic taste uses only pure vanilla, nothing fake,

As she hawks and blinks the nation's just desserts.

"And here's a special one," she coyly smiles at last,

"The Super Cholesterol-Loaded Glutton's Cake

Guaranteed to kill your husband with just one stroke!"

Thoughts on Bob Dole's Election Loss (11/6/1996), 40 lines

The Animal Doctor (1986), (c) TXu 231-818, 67 lines

Lil' Zeus (1996)


My son of three has built a city of great monument

Out of blocks and wood laid out upon the living room floor.

With huddled ziggurats and architecture cocked so,

It teems silently for a day, lording o'er the carpet plain,

Hiding a populus too tiny and ideal for mortal giants' note;

While all around its edge a tootsie railroad chootles

Mirthfully upon a gaudy oval, straining hard at work.

"Too-woo!" my son blows into a wooden whistle.

"Lil' Zeus, the train, is rolling down the track!"

He played all day, or most of it, while Daddy worked,

Until dusk, when darkness stole on, and Daddy quit.

Then Lil' Zeus' trainmaster, the toytown architect,

Up and staked another enterprise of pressing import

Underneath a blanket upon the bedroom floor: Sleep.

Tomorrow Vesuvius the vacuum cleaner lurks.

Copyright 1997

The Man of Money

 Copyright 1987 James Richard Lucas

The Man of Money lives inside a great, gray, granite keep

That is the biggest house there is on all of Baghdad Street.

Each morning sharp at half-past six, he's up and out the door.

He drives his shiny black Mercedes briskly past the poor,

Who have survived somehow another night upon the ground

Of the paternalistic streets of the Man of Money's town,

Who now, restive, move like ghosts in their diurnal rhythm,

As he moves in his--deep in the heart of Byzantium.

At the bluffs above the river, against the breaking sun,

Each day he sees the ziggurat that stands for all he's won,

The Tower of Achievement that spires sparkling o'er the town,

That the Man of Money built from the vision he has found,

A mure monument of mirrors that used to be a slum,

Until he brought the future to new Byzantium.

As he drives each morning, too, he perceives an unknown Force

That confides to him the world is upon a risky course,

Until he takes control, until he arrives at eight a.m.,

Until he takes the phone, until he barks his first command,

Speaking high atop the world headquarters of Money, Inc.,

Speaking authoritatively, while thinking money-think,

Through his floor-to-ceiling, reflectorized glass window viewer,

Near the sky, he sees his universe, and, oh, he feels secure.

All day long the Man of Money buys and sells, sells and buys,

And minions in his presence buzz like noisome, raisin flies,

Until late at night the Man of Money splits the scene.

Hidden by the smokey window glass of his limousine,

He slithers home through Byzantium's labyrinth of streets,

Past TV's glimpsed through screens and clotheslines hung with sheets

And bicycles resting sideways in unkempt, unmown yards,

And figures seen through windows in white T-shirts playing cards,

Until he comes to the wrought-iron gate on Baghdad Street.

With a flick of his electronic wand beneath the seat

He directs the jaws to open wide, and he enters bold.

And every night--even though he is forty-five years old--

Just as he turns the lock, just as he steps into the deep

Of the dark interior of the great, gray, empty keep,

Just as he reaches for the kitchen switch upon the wall,

In that instant of time each night, his world begins to fall,

And the Man of Money hears his departed daughter cry--

And the Man of Money trembles, too empty to replly.

First published 1 Primal Urge 15 (Sacramento, CA, Neural Impulse Publications, July 1988)

Buried Trove:

Bomb Las Vegas!  Bomb Las Vegas! TXu 226-297 (1/30/1986)

California Sunset, TXu 226-296 (1/30/1986)

Death Valley Ride, TXu 226-298 (1/30/1986)

The Extortionist: I Will Kill You, TXu 226-294 (1/30/1986)

Kalamazoo Sins I, TXu 275-431 (2/24/1987)

Kewix, TXu 434-207 (8/27/1990)

Lida, TXu 229-087 (2/24/1986)

Lida II, TXu 230-692 (2/28/1986)

Lida IV, TXu 230-701 (3/10/1986)

Luning I, TXu 237-218 (4/23/1986)

Luning II, TXu 238-190 (5/5/1986)

Luning III, TXu 240-091 (5/29/1986)

Luning IV, TXu 241-538 (6/16/1986)

Luning V, TXu 247-142 (7/3/1986)

Luning VI, TXu 249-109 (8/6/1986)

Luning V!I, TXu 250-173 (8/11/1986)

Luning VIII, TXu 251-808 (8/27/1986)

Luning IX, TXu 261-822 (11/24/1986)

Luning X, TXu 265-224 (1/7/1987)

Luning XI, TXu 266-728 (1/20/1987)

Luning XII, TXu 270-955 (2/24/1987)

Mercy I, TXu 238-818 (3/24/1986)

Mercy II, TXu 233-617 (4/2/1986)

Mercy III, TXu 236-027 (4/15/1986)

Mercy IV, TXu 234-640 (4/15/1986)

New Cities, TXu 301-121 (10/19/1987)

Schurz, TXu 285-072 (6/3/1987)

Spacee Defense Initiative, 1986: Star Wars, TXu 226-295 (1/30/1986)

Samsara Chase, TXu 410-948 (4/10/19900

 Old Mother Hubbard went to the water closet to get her clitoris some friction,/ But when she got there, all she found was Lucas' story, The Douchebag of Fiction.  2/8/2019

 The Poet Kid and the Town with Gun Control by James Richard Lucas  I have followers I don't know.  That is really vain.  I hate this word "follow/er."  Anyone who follows me is a fool.  I have been writing half my life.  Probably more.  Four major novels, two filmscripts, assorted scraps.  One book published, a Kindle, and I don't know how to sweep the typos.  Software bugs.  It all started when i was 11yo in 7th grade.  I wrote a poem, "Snow is falling in the night, snow is falling purest white./ Snow is falling, and it's going to bury me/ In a bank of sub-H2Oh frozen misery that will never melt,/ Until God has makes me a gay daffodil."  See?  I can't tell the truth if I tried.  I made that up.  My teacher cried.   Real tears rilled down Miss Pelosi's cheeks.  "Jim, you have talent!  Natural talent!  You could be a poet!  A writer!"  She told the other teachers about me.  Showed Mr. Shmuckaluck the poem.   Meanwhile, back at home, my mother was going crazy, as I trudged two miles, (four miles back and forth) through the snow, carrying s slide trombone in a case that lacked the machine gun I needed to blast the town and myself.  Damn town had gun control.  Cyberbard Ink of Nevada  2/9/2019

Poem to John Byington's House in Montana in February

 Snow, snow on my home!/ Where the frost and the icicles stay!/ Where snowmelt is lost, an imaginary word,/ Frozen in a lexicon of chattering lips,/ And a kerosene heater is hardly a match against frost,/ Where my power bill is a debit to subzero winter/ That seeks to encase me in a casement of ice/ That no spud can house-burgle,/ Because of the igloo's front door is icicle-shut./ Where the sun seldom shines,/ And it's cold all the time,/ And snowflakes are shot with my snowblower on sight.  JRL2JB  2/9/2019

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