The Ramingo’s Porch – Five Poems By Jeff Bagato

Jeff Bagato

Rabbit Toilet Fantasy

In a box by the bed
a camera light red

hidden, obscene
tapes your fuck scene

you roll, you undress,
there’s a spot you caress—

your toilet is wiped
close up of your swipe

in a bra and a slip
you apply lipstick

my film is a bomb;
this peep show is long

though you didn’t allow,
you’re a star, take a bow.


 

The Desperate Ones

With his wine,
profound

Expansive Casanova calls
the whores with a challenge
of deceit—who, madames,
can pass the biggest vagina
lie on her johns,
and this too easily done
with backside or oral
tongue, so these means
forbidden

Nemesis finds a melon
to do, a sheep cadaver,
a cat’s white belly—
noting a prince who lost his
cock between the teeth of a dog
who bit too soon, excited

My darling, I made one
believe my harpsichord playing
a lullaby in his passion
with a block of greased wood—
“Discord, well done,” in his wine

You must try, from my catalogue,
the folded foot of a Chinese
girl just out
of bandages and odor
divine

Or, this hillock of sculpted wet
earth—her
———breasts
divine inventions

I have traveled the world for
the mouth of a bass,
a salmon,
———a shark’s gill,
a pile of black roe

Fury thought he’d said
to change their point
of view, reporting
a client died of fright
as the prong entered
backside him

Lilith had two appointments at one
hour, one to give and one receive—
at mutual climax unblinded:
his Highness, buggered
by his own request, so pleased
the commoner
was assigned to such duty
forevermore

The boudoir circle
laughs, chewing his flesh
between their lips; Casanova
expansive, with his wine,
devoured


 

Another Hit for History

History’s coming—
———————in a bathroom stall—
with a cock in his ass—
———————with cock severed—
with life severed—
———————with a whispering anus—
a president salvaging love—
———————from a newspaper transcription—
a document of my love—
———————I can jerk off for the rest of my life—
reading every word she thought as we did it—
———————with cock severed—
my wife is the one—
———————they wanted to read her—
how many times—
———————she kneels in the hallway—
our history stalled—
———————with a cock in her ass—
with her cock severed—
———————with her life severed—
with viruses rising—
———————with capital rising—
now military spending—
———————now history coming


 

Plastic Surgeon Voyeur

Death likes to watch
plastic surgery for the guarantee
of good looking corpses, the piece
by piece pulling of fat
as the foretaste of dissolution;
the waste archived
as a memento he keeps on a shelf
or on file until the final joining,
and which he contemplates
on his coffeetable over double tall
lattes like Magdalene pouring soul on
the flame of her own sin
and reaching out for the lash, her horsewhip
coming down like the caress of a skull
before the skin’s peeled back
and lifted into place like sweet
sixteen on the backseat with legs
high and Thoroughgood on guitar
through radio, radio, those airwaves
which death cannot stand
because it ain’t enough to remember
you by, not enough to bring you
to the lift and down
to his waiting arms—
so, you excavate fat like a goose’s turds
dredged from a cemetary fountain,
all that given by age and taken—
all
taken—
from radio stretches of the thighs
and gluteal region, to the excess
tissue reach of an uneven profile
(hanging like a strawberry in the pick-yr-own)
by death


 

Bag of Bones

Going deaf in this world under a sky
painted gray, a sky that forgot how to be black;
hung over naked an old body arches
with sagging tits and a pussy bush weak
from sun stroke—cotton blurs the brain,
stuffed too deeply past the eardrum;
Who’s gonna light the skeletal fires of coming day?
Who now is gathering wood? There may be no
wood remains, we ate it all feeding cars and glass houses;
day or night you can cruise the street and find
light glowing over convenience like a halo;
some fat fucker buying another soda
or a pack of smokes and begging to go
down now.
———————Deaf takes over like a clean
hand on your prick pulled up
clean, so clean
you forget everything
about you in the night, and the day,
too, is forgotten.
———That hand reaches down from body
stretched over old time; she has seen
much she has seen erased.

Her hand sometimes has done
this work.


 

A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose  as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry and visuals have  appeared in Angry Old Man, Anti-Heroin Chic, Chiron Review, Rat’s Ass Review, Slipstream, and Unlikely Stories. Some short fiction has appeared in Future Cactus and Danse Macabre. He has published nineteen books, all available through the usual online markets, including Savage Magic (poetry) and The Toothpick Fairy (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.com.

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