Poetry: Frat Boy Mind Fuck by Mark Parsons

Frat Boy Mind Fuck

He thinks big.
Thinks a big,
Paint-can wide
Phallic thought,
Thought like a phallus,
And fucks his mind with it,
Fucks his mind
Inside out.
Thinks his girlfriend
Will like it too, wants to share
What he feels, his mind
Stretched to the breaking point,
Rubber band taut
Paint can-wide
Thought like a phallus that’s
Rampant and
Ready to
Spread its seed,
Someone else,
So he makes an offering,
First in thought.
When he fucks his girlfriend
He mounts her on top,
Installed at the summit of phallic-thought
Like a Judas Chair with a
Mollusk tentacle lined with suckers
And tapered off to the size of a traffic cone
Wedged at the entrance of inner labia
Stretched apart
Like a swimming cap
Twenty-five sizes too small
And forced open
By gravity pulling her down
So her hairless vulva, as smooth and firm
As a molded silicone rubber
Cast, disappears inside, fucked outside in.
When she squats to perch,
Stuffed to roost like a broody hen,
He spins her around like a pinwheel or top.
Pretty soon, that’s not enough.
Up and down:
Inside out, outside in.
Bored apart by the drill-bit tip
Of a wanton fetish that reams and gouges
And hollows her out, excavating
A farm silo piercing her flat midwestern Tornado Alley
Fecund, female internal topography,
Rising up to a conical point, or an alpine peak
Of unconquered height:  she contains a void and an absence
Nothing will ever fill. When the screaming vortex
Of funnel-cloud from the grey and dense, baleful dark, thunder-mass
Of her restless womb
Touches down, touching ground,
She’s two-hundred unmoored emotions per hour
Rotating fiercely enough to
Heartland America’s breadbasket landscape.
She’s a factory-farm industrial orgasm-milking machine with a bottomless reservoir.
Pretty soon, that’s not enough.
Using the thought like a phallus
He fucks his world
With it, fucks the whole
World outside
Spinning himself and his world around
On the thought like a phallus
He strips the threads in his hex-nut mind:
Wherever he goes and whatever he does perverted by lust
To be used as a setting or prop in his fantasy.
When he goes to the gym
He brings her along,
After choosing her clothes
And laying out buttocks-cleaving,
Lift-and-sculpt yoga pants
Engineered to knead, mold, and shape
Globes of billowing flesh,
With hemispheres
Wedged apart, deeply cleft:
As the fabric seeps into every crevice
It spurs her boyfriend’s intrusive thoughts
Of her ass-cheeks dribbling themselves
With tactile prehensile intelligence up and down
On the hard-on of every male in the gym,
Who follow his girlfriend with ravening raptor eyes.
When he goes to work,
The voracious maw of his lustful fetish
Exerts around him of field of gravity black hole-dense,
To assimilate coworkers, leads, supervisors, and staff: every person
Assumes a rule in his psychodrama of family romance.
A slavish incestuous love of his castrating mother compels him to
Take the place of his castrated father. He offers up now
His own woman, abandoning her on the altar of social reform,
Where diverse stalwart progressive adherents,
Promoting retributive justice, inclusion, and equity
Line up and wait for a turn at the spit-roast and basting,
The double- and triple teams of his girlfriend.
A conference table, long and plain, has been overturned.
The girlfriend on her hands and knees,
The cries of the orgy rise to the high, vaulted ceiling.
The bema fills up with women and men,
And the boyfriend loses sight of his girlfriend.
People line the ambulatory, glimpsed between columns.
The human resources assistant,
A former basketball scholarship athlete,
Hired by affirmative action decree,
Who’s fucking the head of HR, a hotwife and mother,
At her cuckold-husband’s fulfillment, albeit without his consent,
Watches with clipboard and pen, doing a headcount
And checking off names. Sucked down into a carnal vortex,
With mind beset by obsessive thoughts of collective guilt
For society’s failure, induced by his dominant, high-handed mother
To measure unfairness and grievance as zero-sum ledgers
To balance through losing the fruits of a cloying and smothering privilege
She cloistered him in since his birth,
The boyfriend blocks and conducts his genetic demise,
Real and in effigy, to punish himself on behalf of racial and ethnic minorities,
Because civilization has failed to achieve MLK’s dream
Of symbolic and financial equity.
His love
Little more
Than a blow-up doll
For wanton, resentful, mud-colored masses
To hate-fuck, degrade and corrupt,
Having been steeped in obtuse, imperceptive translations
Of French deconstruction
Assigned by millennial adjunct professors,
Rousseau-cribbing hipsters who never heard of Rousseau,
And incensed by naïve, vacuous sentiments
Senile political pundits and statesmen proclaim, the boyfriend,
Dejected and brimming with cuck-angst, watches ensconced and screened-in
Behind the Great Mother’s ankle-length skirt,
A watery, red-rimmed eye to the bulging rift of a button hem.
The mother grips her forearm between her thighs
And rides it.
Her knees buckle;
She hunches over, bent double,
And liquid ejaculate stretches indifferently,
Cat-like, a glimmering boundary
Yawning from under the hem of her skirt.

Mark Parsons' poems have been recently published or are forthcoming in ExPat Press, Dreich, Cape Rock, and I-70 Review. His book of poems, Stills, was published by Southernmost Books in 2023. He lives in Tucson, Arizona.


Popular Posts