BlowJobs and Harmonizing

D-chords. Goddamn D-chords!
Everywhere.
The flip-flop, clip-clop, slop-slop of
Goddamn D-chords!

But it wasn't Romona,
who said she'd suck anyone off under the bleachers.
And it wasn't Jason.
But I can hear the sounds of saliva being cut off by
Fucking D-chords.

"I cannot concentrate when you do that with your teeth."
"Wa wi my weef?"
"You can stop when I am talking to you."
"What with my teeth?"
"Don't chew like that."

We worked sweat out of ice,
but it was what everyone did.
This is what you do when you love,
you fuck like D-cords, and you do it because
it is part of the alphabet and you can't make
love.

Goddamn D-chords. Its too easy,
its too pretty, its everything I want but hate.
Its spinach smothered in chocolate but never put together
and it was Bobby pumping my head up and down whispering,
"Wait until the guys here about this."

Somebody ought to pump Bobby's head up and down
on the kneck of his guitar and say things like,
"Just a little deeper Bobby. Really, get all that in there.
Almost done." But he'd never have the balls to swallow.

"It's sticky," I say fingering around in his warm pudding, and he says, "its
baby-batter so its suppose to be that way."
Bobby smoked a lot of pot, and I could taste it.
But I just kept dreaming about his head bobbing along, up and down,
as guitar grew larger and harder, until it split his brains in two.
And then he could say, "Its sticky" and finger around in brains and blood.

But that can't happen, because I am suppose to suck as he pushes me down, and
I am suppose to laugh at my gaging and tears and snot.
But I can't make him choke on his own cock or swallow every pretty little D-chord of this lifetime with all its prickly little nails scratching throats all the way down.