Poetry: Selections from Frankie Beans

Homoasphyxialus

Choke me with your vibrant tongue,

your lusty chops wrapped 

around my circumference.

Goddamnit you are my desire, 

and I am a lonely wilting serpent, 

shedding tears from my skin torn anew daily,.

Flicking our tongues together, 

heat sensors blooming like hot diamonds, 

ecstatic moans finishing with the cry of my 

breath leaving it's resting place in the bottom

of my lungs. 

It hurts, oh god it hurts me more than it hurts you,

but just enough life is left to germ itself

into a withering Spring, which will sprung again

and again, as long as I want it to. 

 

My Queer Pagan Love God

Your antlers become the goring 

of my death, and you stand there like 

a pagan god, erect.

I am too, then prostrate with myself between 

my thighs, so sincere and evident in my becoming. 

Those hidden desires, malfunctioning wires or something

completely wanted by my being?

 

My ghost trapped in a good boy shell, fucking hell, 

I want fire. I want your mass inside me, God lover king, 

I want you pure phosphoric, meteroric, completely.

I want your altar to be my tomb, I want to annihilate me. 

Your seed imbedded into my loam, my corn husk, 

some new crop we've never seen will rise from it.

 

My flesh is a temple of piss and I need a mop 

to make it clean for you. If only I could be worthy

of your ivy like sprawling, muscle sinew twining, 

upon my stone bed, my desecrated flesh, yours forever. 

It'll smell like the earth, much better than the spent spunk

on my bedsheets that accuse me of never doing anything 

with my life that means a damn.

Jerking Off With Razors On My Mind

Not the blades, but the scooters,

fuck me the 2000’s were a good time, 

when you’d flip that bitch around after doing 12 mph

down your driveway and hit your ankle, 

that’s where I learned how pain can be pleasure

if you know how to twist it, bop it, squeeze it just so. 

 

My childhood, a sham, 

yours too probably, 

but in the middle we learned how to cum

til our senses made no sense 

and our licking of the dried spooge 

off our carpenter jeans like a cat 

confused for fish meat, 

how that made sense 

in a manic way. 

 

A sad, sad little man, 

we’ve become now that we can’t work 

and can’t blow our brains out out of fear, 

out of love, pure phosphorescent love

for someone that can’t comprehend the madness

behind my eyelids, the pin point light fuses 

that they hide are like tractor beams 

and I’m the cattle being mutilated. 

Halibut

I was alone a lot as a teen.

But at least I learned that Halibut 

is a battery for hot pulsating attraction

for me in my Pisces era, 

my merman dreams making m

(where the zipper lays). 

 

I was on acid and I visited a fish market,

the poor fucks on ice, them screaming 

in silence all over me, flopping at my ears, 

“You ever fuck a fish?” 

Well, no, but now I’ve got to, right?

“You ever fuck a fish?”

Please leave me alone, 

“You ever fuck a fish?”

 

Just when you think fish don’t have teeth, 

they do, it’s some sort of sandpaper for your pleasure. 

Best part is, 

The little beady marbles of eyes

staring there, waiting to take you on, 

all five inches of your estrogen stunted girth,

a fat kid with no hope of ever getting laid otherwise, 

unless he turns gay and pimps his ass on Craigslist. 

 

Later on in life

I had a girlfriend that wouldn’t move during sex. 

I don’t remember her name

but I think it rhymed with Halibut.

Frankie Beans was born in 1994 in Albany, Georgia, USA. Formerly, he's worked as an arcade attendant, pizza delivery boy, home health worker, and research assistant in a mycology lab. He is currently an amateur ethnographer embedded in the death rattle of the American Dream.