from Self-Titled
by Nick Demske

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Good Touch
after Walt Disney

This is the most beautiful stool sample I have ever see
N.  A stool sampler could search her whole life for a specimen half this perfect.
I can’t taste this food.  I can’t feel my legs.
You must feel them for me.  You suppository.

The emancipated marionette snips its own strings.  This confirms its inab
Ility to move independent.  Can you show me on the puppet where
The poetry touched you?  Would you like to sample some of our
Finest stool, today?  I need an adult.  I need an ad

Olescent—a sweater puppeteer shiver me tim
bers.  “That poetry touched me,” my virgin ears bleed.
“I was moved by your puppetry,” my bowels fess, ashamed.
The incontinent coprophile wallows in bliss.  A pedophile wets the bed. Kiss me like I’m 

Still a child, a Real Boy, proclaiming this, the finest stool sample of its kind,
The finest the world has seen since the great sampling of ought nine.

Negro Spiritual
for Dayvin

The only thing fair about God is his skin.
Sorry to rain on your million man march.
If you’re in my country, you ought speak the King
Of kings English.  You ought lynch your collar starched.

This neighborhood used to be so nice.  Now the rat race riots asphyxiate its aqueducts.
Racism is colorblind, like my once living mother singing from her hymnal; the whitest
White person to ever feel entitled.  What’s
The universal sign for choking on the Eucharist?

This blank page I made you is a colored pencil
Mural of a wafer so hoar it’ll choke the demons out us all.  [revise: “pencil
Of color” –Ed.]  In the beginning, there was the N-word,
With colorblind faith in forty acres, a mule.  God wins because he’s bigger,

Until I digest this cracker, converting it on
Into the drabbest defecant His face will ever don.

“two letters traced by a hoof in the dust,”

A sequence of Ms denotes palatability, the ability to pal
At, if you will.  But you won’t.  Out of a principle
Void of all pal.  The charges have been
Dropped to the depths for which they were named.  The art in in

Articulate.  The ysis in analysis.  Sadly, I have to remain a god.        A sequence
Of Zs denotes slumber, lest precede
D by a lone B, then indicating a creature whose only defense
Is suicide.  Do you have any idea what we’re de

Aling with, here?  The angel in televangelist.  The neolo
Gism.  You can’t escape form.  Belie
Ve me.  I’ve tried.  An alternating sequence of Xs and Os
Designates male cows, the toes of tic tackery

But, beyond that—our love, near as golden
As the showers which bear that name.  MMMM.

Tragic Songstress

“Have things gone terribly wrong?” the sumo
inquires of his 14th helping.  In Japanese though.
“Am I a total douche bag?” pontificates the scholar,
addressing his robe.  In Latin though.     I reinvent the solar

powered flash light    every night.  I malfunct
Ion like an elapsed R&B singer’s wardrobe.
“Have I neither rhythm nor blues?” reflects
a bare breasted negress in spotlight.    The dendraphobe
Muses, “This poem has no theme, direction
Or valid interpretation,” and, then, vomits an R&B lyric. “Have I wasted my prover
Bial life?” he asks a random turd in a mountain of scat.          In every scholar
There’s a natural secretion

Waiting to smell sort of gross.  In every R&B poet, readvent of dirge.
In every sumo, there’s a little bulimic awaiting a glorious purge.

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