Poetry by Johan More

 

 

Never Again With A German

 

Ah, you laughing kraut. You grumpy sieve.

Would you let me borrow the knickers to plow Helga?

“Of course!”, you said.

There is something

briny about the way the labia tastes

when punctured by the fingernails

of Renaldo.

“Renaldo?,” you asked.

“A Spaniard! He stinks!”

Let me borrow the bow and quiver so

I can kill the swift beaver.

“The beaver is swift!”, you said.

“Renaldo!”

Again, the German has betrayed me.

 

 

 

The Life of The Greek Busboy

 

As the waitress sauntered away from the cold station carrying trays of bloody fish,

and the first days of menstruation

sloshed around underneath her apron

it smelled like a skunk had been raped from behind in the kitchen.

Ah, the sweet, sweet sounds of the vagina's song...

Oh, to be a tiny vessel sailing in that bloody sea!

Woosh!! Splash!

I must wait no more. I need that sweet, sweet song.

Woosh!!! Splash!!

I must swim.

Swim, like the slippery Puerto Rican line cook

who quit two days ago and fled for the endless summers

and the tan, tan women.

I must swim.

 

 

 

 

Dirty Russian Women

 

Oh, thy armpits of death

deceive me in the winters of

Glasgow or Kiev, yet the women

flounder and bake bread.

Why must they breed so much?

Like the negros in the forest leaping over leopards,

they bake and make many cold men happy.

But, must I sit alone in this gentle fire?

I wait for the dark days to pass

like the gigantic Russian woman

sitting on my lap.

She has left mud on my thigh.

Oh, she has.

I will sing.

 

 

About the Author

Johan More is a former copy writer from Charleston, S.C. and an aspiring professional poet. He has trained under Annie Hackins, poet laureate of Hampton, Va. His influences (in no particular order) are Slather, Montgomery, Guarez, and Linton (of course).