Greg Gerding , Poet

Poems by Greg Gerding

The 12th Letter of the English Alphabet

I labored for hours licking my girlfriend’s labia until I finally stopped to admire the beautiful glossy finish my lapping had created.

She remained there as if she were on layaway and looked like an expanse of land that had just been cultivated. I spoke her language so well that with my lance-like tongue I rendered her limbs disabled and any free movement was presently impaired.

Her eyes, that had long ago rolled back up into her head, started to roll forward and as the lens began to focus on me, their luster radiated a lascivious light. I could tell I was going to have to lasso that look with a leash before it produced a lather, or worse, a lava flow, but, it was too late – the scene became lecherous.

She lashed out her lure and I was hooked. She pulled me in and locked me up in leather. She did unspeakable things with just a plate of lasagna that left me lame-brained and will most certainly become the subject of a legend to be enjoyed for centuries to come.

She mowed me like a lawn.

If she was on layaway, I was undoubtedly laid off.

She paraded in front of me in lacy lingerie and beat me with strips of linoleum until I was begging her to finally fuck me with her well-lacquered lips. I didn’t care which pair.

But, before loosening the lottery, she suspended a bottle of lotion above me and began spelling something on my loins in longhand. L – O – S – E – R.

She then explained that for the duration of Lent, I was to be left, locked in leather, to prove that I would forever be her loyal lover. "See you in 40 days," she laughed.

She left me limp and skipped off to do her laundry.

A Lover’s Yield

"I hate men, but I love dick," she says to me as we lay there next to each other in bed, our bodies smoldering in the afterglow.

This works out for me, because I pretty much hate women, but love pussy. Especially ones like this one who proclaim to be crazy. I am particularly drawn towards women like her.

All the warning signs are there every time a new crazy one enters my life, but they never slow me down any. And then, I invest so much and become bored so quickly. For me, the pattern of things are cyclical … like their periods, which, by the way, never slows me down any either. In fact, sex seems hottest during those heavy flow days – probably because it all seems so terribly wrong. She gets embarrassed by the amount of blood on the condom when I pull out after finishing. It never bothers me, but it always bothers her – I don’t know why.

This one, though, is special. We never grow tired coming up with new ways to entertain each other’s bodies with our mouths. I enjoy flirting her nipples erect with my tongue and then teasing them taut with my teeth. She always shudders beneath.

The best is when she ties me to the bed frame. This totally exposes me and somehow makes her ravenously free of inhibitions. She enjoys watching me squirm beneath my flagpole erection, waving it around as if surrendering … begging her to release me. Instead, she just waves her pussy back at me, making me woozy with her sex. Her breasts beam brighter than two suns above me and my lips become parched with thirst.

She then straddles my middle, grazes her breasts lightly across my chest, and then ever so slowly, with her eyes half-closed and high, she backs her pussy’s lips ever so close to the tip of my cock. The clock just stops to focus more closely on that moment. She perches herself there, allowing only the very top of my cock’s head a moment to sup upon her wetness. She does this forever, rolling herself slowly, backwards and forwards, gently parting those two wet lips with barely the tip of my cock.

After a while, she raises herself towards me, lifting her breasts just out of my mouth’s reach, teasing me. She then straddles my head, lowers herself upon me, and writhes herself against my tongue.

She tastes silver, like a gun.

Afterwards, once I am completely destroyed and she’s finally unfurled me, we lie next to each other and smoke cigarettes.

"I hate men, but I love dick," she blurts out, breaking the silence of our repose.

She then asks me to put a cigarette out on her skin, just below her bellybutton.

‘Oh yeah,’ I think to myself as I oblige her, ‘this bitch is crazy.’

Fact 1

The essence of love …

A spider shuffles across the face of the page
and quickly we just want to smash it.

Why is the heart such a delicate thing?
Should we not have fashioned it into a stronger machine?

We pretend that it is stronger than it really is.

Hearts are just scared, fragile things
like spiders waiting to be smashed.


Fact 2

Matt’s drug use has become unproductive. I tell him he must break up with Trisha. I never worried about his drug use and I never worried about his handling of Trish, but the two have since crossed paths and one has got to go or Matt’s going to kill himself. And, with Matt, the drugs will always remain.

Brent and Cindy are doomed to each other and their pattern will never change. They break up one week and are back together the next.

So? So what? These are real people’s lives. What will I have said when it’s all said and done?

There needs to be a certain precision to the timing –
a certain snap of the tongue –
or else – what?

Who hasn’t heard it all before? What haven’t you heard said one way or another some other way before? If you don’t approach this lifetime with some degree of desperation, some level of anxiety – have you lived? Have you truly lived?

I have wasted entire days before the television – to what end? Have you thought of all the words you have ever wanted to say?

I think we’ve said it all before.

I’m just trying to think of new ways to say the same old thing.

Fact 3

Love has been away too long.
The blood pumps poison.

The absence of love leaves the mind to wander
and the mind sets out to destroy the self.

So, what happens with the key? The key so freely given away? What happens with the key? Do you ask for it back? Or do you change all the locks in your heart? What if she attempts re-entry with the old key? You know it’s not going to work, but do you let her in anyway?


Fact 4

The physical never endures.
The mental prevails.
And wails.
And fails.

Nothing is forever failsafe.
Something always happens.


Fact 5

Thoughts are like bubblegum,
they just continue to chew
and chew and chew.

FUCK YOU.

I grit and grind my teeth like an addict.

There’s a fraction of my brain I’d like to have killed.
I’ve paid the assassins – I just didn’t realize I paid for the slow and painful kind.

I should have paid them more.
Yeah, the job might have been done faster then.


Fact 6

How come there isn’t more whiskey in my house? How did that happen? Awakening on this side of sobriety is so disappointing. I’m disappointed in myself that I don’t destroy myself with drink more.

No one’s interested in the pussy,
they all want the prick.

The prick of pain.
The prick of sex.
The prick of passion.
The prick.

Fact 7

"Paint me a picture," she whines to the artist.

The artist finds such a request insulting. His past lovers never demanded his art, they always just inspired more of it. You never speak of the art, you just continue living it. Some people just don’t get it – they demand more without really understanding it.

"You’re such a genius, what you’re capable of with your hand and your brain," she says.

"I’m bored," says the artist.

The sex for him has never been better, but … what? The sex has never been better, but … what? Paint the sex? Is the sex enough?

You cannot paint the fulfilled.
You can always paint the other.

A Dream

Have you imagined your own death?
Or are you afraid of that imagining?

I’m pretty sure I have shredded my face through the windshield of my car several times. Or driven my motorcycle off the side of a canyon cliff. Or been crushed into the one foot cube of a car wreck. Or sat calmly in the center of a fire. Or shot myself in the head. Or stabbed myself in the heart. Or imagined what it would be like to die in a plane crash or drown in a shipwreck.

BUT …

Have you ever imagined the death beneath a
slow-moving pen or a drip-dropping whiskey?

I squeeze my brain of excess tears and feel the salt scratch itself down the length of my throat.

I can’t cry.
But, I need to.

The weight of everything is unbearable.

Why must I carry all this weight alone?
Why won’t someone help me?

I am tired of pushing the same old furniture around.
All I do is break my back moving the same old furniture through the same old rooms.
It looks different for a while – I even think I’m happy with the new arrangement – and then, it’s just a matter of time before I realize it’s the same old furniture –
it’s just in a different place.

A Dude and Some Drunk Bitch

A dude with a fat belly and nothing else leans against the pillar in the bar while,

two older-looking longhairs strum the shit out of their acoustic guitars
and try to strum the sex out of their instruments
and try to spit their sex through a microphone
and try to get sex from,

some drunk bitch who is convinced that the two longhairs are half of Spinal Tap.

"Spinal Tap" is her favorite movie.

So she spreads her legs for the sex of instruments and microphones
and is so convinced that she spreads her legs anyway and,

"Aren’t they geniuses?"
"No."
"Sure they are, they’re half of Spinal Tap."
"No, they’re not."
"Sure they are."
"No, they are not."
"Sure they are."
"OK. They are."
"See – I told ya."

Meanwhile, half of Spinal Tap is being born within the fat belly of the dude leaning against the pillar
and he has nothing else but Spinal Tap in his belly and …

What the fuck am I talking about?

Who cares.
I knew I shouldn’t have come here.

Too many old, longhaired, fat fucks trying to get laid and trying to lay it into chicks who are easily impressed by dudes who look like half of Spinal Tap.

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