Shaman Dick Milk
My mind’s gears spin like an airplane propeller possessed by the astral material of dead ancestors clinging to neuron receptors…is that you, William Blake, Ginsberg, Rimbaud, Ezra pound….Sylvia Plath, I can feel you lurking in the shadows, peeking through Lazarus’s opera glasses/two visible eyes, third one plummeged up with a fleshy forehead--oh let me, swash back the neck of this damn flask and attempt to traverse this ocean of language and symbols while you, my dear companions, just sit back on dry land and relax…have a drink or two! Your attempt to get off the island was commendable, to say the very least, but like aimless rafts, here you touch back the shore at every goddam try...fucking pathetic! So leave this exploration now to I...C.J. Garrett! Wise poet wizard who can swing from vibration to vibration of the universe so these choppy waves mean nothing!
In the bowl of my left iris, a bearded Shaman sitting upon a buoy squirting ayahuasca out his left boobie. Like a sex addict pulling apart shields of latex and bra straps, in a moment, the distance between us turns into but a mere thumbtack--open mouth wide open; ayahuasca squirts in like a hot geyser.
“Tell me Shaman, don’t this ayahuasca taste kind of funny?” I ask, rolling the thick liquid round round on my tongue like a molasses carousel--yes, yes...I tasted a lil’ bit of nipple and a lil’ bit of nipple hair--not the problem! Something far else disjointed the geometry.
“Oh that’s not ayahuasca...that’s semen.”
“Yes, semen. Your semen more specifically.”
Ahhhh. Now we see, the completion of the geometry! My semen quickly terraformed into the taste of my poetry...slightly better tasting semen. I spat out my cum...disgusted, but turned on as the shaman sprouted a beret, turtleneck, scarf and afro and began masturbating while making dick jokes.
Feeling like a more tragic Gilligan, I swam back to my ancestors to apologize, but they all pissed on me while telling me to go to hell. Except Lady Lazarus...she was dead in my easy bake oven, billowed over with shame as it were. But they ensured me, she’d be back tomorrow with theatrical insults and burns and you just drank shaman dick milk out of a shaman nipple so don’t expect to get out the roasting that easy.
They all laughed at me, drinking the last of my scotch while waving middle fingers.