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To follow is a draft of a poem I’ve never submitted anywhere because, frankly, I think you’d have to be a complete fool and idiot to publish it:
The parrot I bought from a fat man in Laredo may well be retarded. All he grinds out is “Cunt!” “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” All night, even, that's all he grinds out: “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” One night I was drunk, really drunk, and the girl I was with wanted it in the ass: “In the ass!” she urged, “In the ass!” and I had no idea where I was, the whole scene covered in fog, and all I’m sure of’s she kept screaming “No, Pussy! No, Pussy!”
Well, for some reason while having breakfast this morning I thought of this poem (maybe it has something to with my wife asking me if wanted some sugar on my cereal and my answer--“No, Honey.”)
Anyways, it’s strange how the mind works but for some reason, staring down at my cereal there, I had a vision of Ron Silliman, The Big Man, laboring at an exquisite young creature, down on her hands and knees, and screaming--
“No, Langpo. No, Langpo.”
Thinking about this now I guess he must have been hitting her SOQ.
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