i’m a dirty old man and when i was young I was a dirty young man and if i grow to be ancient i’ll be a dirty ancient man and when i was a boy i was a dirty boy and when i was middleaged there i was squashed between innocence and incapacity, on the throne of dirty, and when i was an infant i was an especially dirty infant and when i was a fucking teenager i was a fucking dirty teenager and i’ll always be dirty because i love being dirty and i’ll be dirty even if i live forever and dirty’s more fun than being clean and if mommy or daddy told you otherwise they can go to hell and this is what dirty is:
1. it’s wanting to rub your sex on elephants and streetcar poles and wasted poles
2. it's thinking about everyone you meet without
their clothes on and piled higher than everest
doing the kama sutra forward and reverse and everything covered in gas and zeus with his matchstick ready and lit
3. it’s wanting big black pricks—fuck the clichés—ramming me in tropical plant greenhouse washrooms, my ass spread like a book over the dripping sink and whoever coming in and watching and joining like some de sade cuckoo clock, some sex du soleil, some carousel of rising falling whirling oysters! roosters! lights! music! and it’s knowing dirty has nothing to do with political correctness or anything but being dirty and feeling great about that, as if the world’s a big hairy testicle or a woody allen boob
4. it's seeing juicy screaming pussies wide
as mirrors on velvet couches like those
brothels in your brain, hands coming out of them, fingers soaked and beckoning, and clits like talking pomegranates, blabbing slutty, seedy, crimson, the way you like it, the blood, the blood
5. it's getting through dentist hell by having her say,
did you know it’s international nude
dental day today? then her stripping, feeling her
soft saggy catholic bubs against my cheek as she’s drilling in my mouth and after i’ve done the final rinse she says time for you to drill me now and she clambers up doggy-style half-geriatric on the drilling chair and i’m hard as god, life’s just endless porn clips unless you’re mormon then it’s endless mormon porn clips
(what else do you do with that throbbing thing between your legs? cut it off? sew it up? get some deity to delegitimize it? bury it in meetings and skating lessons and mortgages and muffins? what else with those manic memories? say oh me oh my oh silly youth! or i used to be bad but i don’t need to be bad no more or the highest functions of our species are hardly simian but those of virtue and honesty and discipline, which are their own rewards and devoting your life to proving this despite the seven billion pieces of evidence to the contrary but it’s so much fun to say fuck and even more fun to do it and if towers should fall and all the fish die and bugs overrun us, who cares, really? everything dies and it surely isn’t an accident eros and thanatos have always been friends with benefits, doing it in their mythic bouncy castle—always an open bday party at the hard shag café on planet moof)
6. it’s spending my time in elevators
undressing people because it’s a helluva lot more interesting than whatever tragedy is being broadcast on the monitor
7. it’s looking at that boxer’s swinging balls in the doggie park and thinking maybe they might taste good
(that’s not all i am: i bake flognardes and babysit my grandchildren and read mallarme and take long walks and scrub my bathtub using allnatural cleaners and don’t own a car and compost a lot and am mostly nice to my neighbors and ponder the nature of god in something of a spinozean way and drink only the finest global beers and am told—but who isn’t these democratic days?—that i’m a great lover and volunteer in my community and feel no desire to abuse my cats and behave more or less like the citizen i’m supposed to be and don’t censor any of my thoughts so)
8. if you’re walking down the street and your
stockings stop at just the right spot and i’m in a particular mood i’ll pull you into my mind and throw you facefirst on a desk on the 72nd floor and yank your panties down and your skirt up and do what any certified ape thinks about at least 81 times a day
9. if you and your mother or brother or sister or
cousin or boss or grandmother or whatever are
sitting there across from me (but only if everyone’s legal of course because i’m canadian) … we’re all bonobos, little copulation deities, fulfilling the only thing that’s ever fulfilled (nature, stupid) … what are couches for anyway? (and here we are, all this flesh, black time holes, collapsed, sucking darkness like it’s a milkshake) … what the hell, it’s all in the family, names are constructs, we’re all related
10. all this, this hindu heaven, love here on
earth, pure bodhisattvas of glorious
nothingness, and you’re a perfect 10 even
if you’re 100 (in the baptismal tank, in
the name of the mother and the
daughter and the holey host, laid
down and dying dying dead, you’re
resurrected! thank aphrodite and the virgin
mary and that whore, magdalene, made ever
new!)
(and we’re night and fire and ice and words are a lie, we’re all hair and goobers and drive to the grave in our b-52s like the idea of a certain kind of god dreamed by another kind of god in a messy nest of chirping gods)
… and you wouldn’t think this if you met me but who cares the mask is all as willy taught us and that’s what being dirty is and i’ve always been dirty and i love being
dirty and my god’s dirty too and so are
you.
