When Alice watched space shuttles launch on TV,

There would pool in her panties a puddle.

As she gobbled up popsicles, weakened of knee,

Would her fair, freckled skin flush and ruddle.

‘Neath her pillow went pickles and cold cobs of corn,

Troves of Twinkies amassed ‘mongst her socks,

Dismayed neighbors watched on, once, as Alice, one morn,

Chased the Weinermobile fifteen blocks.

Funk & Wagnalls defines “Phallophilia” as

“A neurosis (one, often erotic)

Characterized by compulsions,” it says,

“Which beleaguer the smitten psychotic.”

Evidently, those stricken are apt to display

(As established in case study “Alice”)

“A proclivity toward,” the text goes on to say,

“That which holds or pertains to the phallus.”

Well, the Washington Monument made her toes curl,

Pisa’s Tower too, Lean, long, and powerful.

“Oh, had these erections but arms,” gushed the girl,

Dreaming how the two might Eiffel Tower her.


So, although the cigar on which Freud’s claim lay base,

Was, in fact, often just a cigar,

It would seem that we deem this, in Alice’s case,

A fallacious notion thus far.


Boners on Busses

I awoke with a start, when ahead the bus forged

Down the street when I noticed, aghast,

That my member, with blood, was now fully engorged,

And a raging hard-on had amassed.

Try as I might to diminish the tent

In my trousers with unsexy thoughts,

The recalcitrant ‘rection refused to relent,

And the bus had gone well past my stop.

Sighing surrender, I leered at my lap,

“It appears that you’ve won this round, mate.”

Defeated, I drifted back into my nap,

Distant throbbings began to abate.

When again I awoke to my bus seat, ensconced,

Though my lap-dragon lay in remission,

Other patrons had moved far away in response

To the diesel, nocturnal emissions.

Tube Socks


Moldy tennis balls firmly affixed to the feet

Of his walker, he slithered, unseen.

Then each locker, of socks, did he feebly deplete,

As he loosened his worn gaberdine.


Confirming the corridor’s coast to be clear,

He inhaled deeply into the pile,

Down his pants, he then made a stray sock disappear,

And relieved himself into the argyle.


Shuddering, he clutched at his musty caché,

Gnarled fingers caressing each hem,

Drawing, then, one last breath of stale cotton so grey,

Did he, one by one, gently replaced them.


A Midwinter Night’s Dream

An immaculate blanket, pristine, cold and bright,

Surrounded it thoughtlessly, airy and light,

The butterscotch blemish besmirching the white,

Lay aloof and alone, all but blind to its blight.

Cast away, strewn aside, sat the sad swarthy slight,

For the bear that had passed it had passed out of sight,

Like a whistling kettle, it steamed in the night,

Imposing its stink with profound, pungent might.

Dwalin & Monche

Dwalin stood dwarven, deformed and grotesque,

Ever-bent by a hard, hamstrung hunch,

Driven mad by implacable lust for burlesque,

And a one-eyed, French flapper named Monche.

The myopic madam, not without her charms,

Bore a glass eye, white, rheumy and still,

That reflected light onto her pustuled arms,

Which she proudly would rupture at will.

“Money up front, mon amour, s’il vous plaît,”

Hissed her voice through a phlegm-laced veneer,

Smiling sweetly, her scabby tongue slithered its way

Into that which remained of his ear.

If their passion affected the business, although,

 The burlesque house was not apt to gauge,

For most just presumed it was part of the show,

As they generally fucked on the stage.

Watch Where You’re Pointing That Thing

Peter perpetually found himself pissing

On poop-stains that painted the bowl,

Pete’s powerful pee-stream projected forth hissing,

Propelling with practiced control.

He fragmented floaters with frolicsome ease,

In a golden, mercurial dance,

Then he’d curse at the sky and he’d fall to his knees

When the splash-back would pepper his pants.