In this sickhouse dream I am on Mars,
Sliding down the frozen seas in a canoe
made of human lips, like Nanook, only helpless,
unable to call out to anyone, my own mouth
stitched cold and what I wouldn’t give to be horny
right now, in a steamroom full of slurp,
all my comrades full of slurp,
the hot, salacious kind not found on Mars,
the sort who have made horny
a life commitment and when you say canoe
they leer and wet their mouths
and pout, implying that they are helpless,
won’t you help them, they are so helpless
though the word is one big, lewd slurp
and all they want is to lick my mouth,
they don’t care about Mars,
they don’t care about my canoe,
they have their priorities straight: they are horny.
How sweet to surrender to their dream, to be horny
with them, not helpless
in this stiff canoe
under the lonely red ridges, unable to slurp
because it’s too cold on Mars
and there’s no one here, not a single mouth
(if you don’t count my mouth)
and I begin to see now that these horny
thoughts are just ways of reminding me: I’m on Mars,
I’m entirely helpless,
there is no one toward whom I might slurp
and my only means of progress is a canoe
made of human lips, a stiff canoe
that will not speak to me, that is not a mouth,
that cannot (or will not) slurp
that is merely wood, lips, what have you—and horny?
You can kiss horny goodbye, you helpless
bastard, you’re on Mars
in a canoe of lips and here, on Mars,
in your helpless sickhouse dream, there’s no mouth,
no horny rescue team, you are alone: entirely, utterly, without slurp.