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

Around

Paint can-wide

Thought like a phallus that’s

Rampant and

Ready to

Spread its seed,

Infect

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

Obliterate

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

Outside

In.

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,

Compression-knit

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

Now

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.