A Cocksucker's Prayer

by Kirby

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1.
A Cocksucker’s Prayer Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my hard cock to keep If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my furry bum to take … but that’s only if we don’t have to wear condoms, ’cause I’m not interested in any heaven where I can’t feel a man cum up my butt. Only Pope John Paul should have to wear one while getting fucked without enough lube by a train of men who died with AIDS, only they don’t want to waste their time on such a big vacant hole, so they stuff it with used, unbleached Jeff Stryker dildoes the ones collecting dust on remainder shelves. It’s okay John Paul, don’t worry. Jeff’s straight. “You like that big straight dick, don’t you John Paul?” How often do you masturbate, Jesus? What lubricant do you use? I imagine you have this beautiful big black cock, being Lord and all. Are you cut or uncut? I’m sure it’s perfect. I wish you didn’t let them cut me. Can I have lots of foreskin in heaven? Which of the twelve gave the best blowjob? Peter? I thought so. He was always big on denial. Did you ever come out to anyone while you were on earth? There’s no mention of it in the Gospels. It sure would’ve made things a lot easier. How could straight translators know Mary Mag was a huge fag in drag? I’m not at all happy with the way things are around here. Too much loss. Too much. Please say Hi to my friends Tom and Bernie and Robert and Saint Derek. Kiss them for me. When I get there, Jesus, if there’s not a grand old porn house like the Adonis, open 24 hours, with an active balcony, and a line up of every gay pornstar from the late seventies/early eighties— Lee Ryder, Tony Bravo, Al Parker, Leo Ford, Dick Fisk, John Davenport, Giorgio Canalli, Chad Douglas— eagerly awaiting outside my exclusive stall with a huge gloryhole on both sides smoothed by the cocks and tongues of angels, then either place me in charge of renovations or turn me away.
2.
How Often 01:53
3.
4.
No Contest 02:51
No contest America you can not will not win this is not fucking amazing race there is No fucking “win” No finish No free billions Trillions Made in China O, the savings! the minute your first million-dollar grunt touches boot upon their soil One giant step you expect them to greet rollover who wouldn’t want these Walmart prices entering plundering destroying devastating All in the name of Your Almighty American interests taking pocketing Not conquering FAILING One big fat obese “F” as in FUCK YOU homeless jobless penniless FUCK YOU diseased infected gays illegals LOSERS as in hell-bent mother fucking Dick Cheney seeing stars n stripes forever corn-holy FUCKED. “National security” ? your own businesses banks fuck you raw sideways for breakfast no crumb left behind before teeing-off. The two towers— peanuts (and a plan.) They hit their target in a day a morning done “Mission Accomplished” Real shock and awe. You? HA! No plan. Not going in Not getting out You’ll never Stop Never. A-bomb God Ordained Palin on your side ;) :) 20 fervent deluded believers taste glory with pocket money & box cutters vs. the greatest unemployed uneducated uninsured insecure disenfranchised indebted incarcerated illiterate litigious celebrity-driven lying torturing self-righteous entitled abused medicated “we’re Number 1!” lost broken hope people of the United States of America. No contest.
5.
Sweet 01:45
Sweet Sweet to behold so sweet, for each, our bigness sweet the glove fits sweet, your reach your attentive kisses, sweet your circumference you, on toes, bucking boy’s throat. O so sweet to slobber, to tear to choke, to gag, to struggle to breathe, take more “Sweet, boy.” Witness, sweet your stance your might your poolboy cockiness. Sweet to unveil the Beauty crown poised just above boy’s sweet parted lips. (did boy mention cock’s perfection?) boy’s hole sweet hole Yours. Sweet fumbling joy! boy sweet to ask, “may I?” the laces, (…the knot), the buttons, the buckle, your waistband sweetness itself boy’s eye view Sweet. Your smile. God, your smile, god your sweet, sweet reason to smile (boy’s, too) OMG your fucking sweet hang, man-o man Fuck! piss, tangy-sweet (belly laughs, sweet). Sweet thing— my man’s cock my sweet.
6.

credits

released June 14, 2014

Produced by DON PYLE
Written and performed by JEFF KIRBY

Composed by DON PYLE
Church Organ DALLAS GOOD
Art LEO SCOPACASA—ORBITAL ARTS GALLERY

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Kirby Toronto, Ontario

KIRBY’s earlier chapbooks include Simple Enough, Cock & Soul, Bob’s boy, The world is fucked and sometimes beautiful, and most recently, SHE'S HAVING A DORIS DAY ( knife | fork | book, 2017). Their full-length debut, THIS IS WHERE I GET OFF now in its 2nd Printing from Permanent Sleep Press. Kirby is the owner/publisher of knife | fork | book ... more

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