The Poetry of Edgar Rouche

Embalming

It would be strange
if his body came to life
right now
me here
with my dick in it.

Would it spoil his
miraculous revival?
Was the afterlife
worse than ass rape?

Would he ask me to
please stop?
Or would the
hungry zombie
take a bite
out of my penis?


Do you hear what I hear?

I think I may be living with a queer
I can hear his best friend moaning
through the wall
and it doesn’t bother me
at all.

The queers, the queers
they fuck into the night
and my ears are starting
to get used to it.
In fact I can’t sleep
without the sound
of manskin
slapping together.

It doesn’t turn me on
but its rhythm
soothes me
and rocks me to sleep
like a baby
whose parents
fuck after they put it to bed.


Hip Hip

hooray!

The drug screen came back clean.

good thing they don’t test

for stupid


Ten things I cannot go through life without

1. Love
2. The Lord’s bountiful mercy
3. Warm succulent pussy
4. Friends
5. Baby penguins
6. Summer sunsets
7. Grabbing my friends nuts and
twisting, twisting, twisting, twisting
and pulling
like taffy
and twisting, twisting, twisting, twisting
8. Good poetry read while sipping
brandy and smoking a fine cigar.
9. Hallucinogenic drugs
10. Quiet meditation while taking
a good long shit.


Ass Poetica

stinky bowels of
coffee shop
kindred poets

inky iambs on their thumbs
sticky fingers
like the sex addicts

self-copulating minds
refrain from reaching to
one another

afraid their tongues
might touch
(not to mention
more intimate parts)

like their asses

the fear of
ass touch
is immobilizing