by Dennis Mahagin
I never got sucked off, in the cab of an ice cream truck,
but I always heard this berry cool music, "don't hurry up..."
via cello and piccolo, late June, afternoons in my head
when the bluebirds said, "come on a slice of moon."
Always in my horny head, hearing these unhurried tunes
by Peter Murphy, and the Grateful Dead, or getting head
on a cardiac care day bed, w/ bowl of stars, milk, & moons
that this freckle-faced girl tipped over. I came too soon.
Peter Murphy sings "Cuts You Up" for prostate and cardiac
ablation patients of the mind, who wave stiff dicks like wands,
conducting symphonic ice cream tunes -- "don't come too soon."
My lover's long hair was exactly the color of a Creamsicle.
Cardiac and cancer patients of the mind, wanking like blind
monks in an ice-cold monastery, lips stained by Acai berry
and wondering when, oh when, the kind of Creamsicle girl
in wet dreams would show up, as compassionate Candy
Striper with berry of Acai between her lips; my God is she
going to shove it, in my hot slit? Pulsating thick as cello moan
dappled by freckles, slick with a glaze, lasts for so many days
and runneling, sweet cold slush down a Creamsicle throat.
Pulsating slits, moaning "hurry, ... shove it" --
the kind of head that cuts you up, in a Murphy bed
I poured and poured, sorrow down a Creamsicle throat
but I never, ever fucked in a boat, or ice cream truck.
Dennis Mahagin is a poet and writer from eastern Washington. He also edits fiction and poetry for FRIGG Magazine. He talks to his Charvel bass guitar on a bi-weekly basis, and just the other
day he convinced a kid not to shoplift.