A Colossal American Copulation by Adrian C. Louis -- fuck war in every form...

A Colossal American Copulation

By Adrian C. Louis 

 for Scarecrow

They say there’s a promise
coming down that dusty road.
They say there’s a promise coming
down that dusty road, but I don’t see it.
So, fuck the bluebird of happiness.
Fuck the men who keep their dogs chained.
Fuck the men who molest their daughters.
Ditto the men who wrap their dicks
in the Bible and then claim the right
to speak for female reproductive organs.
Likewise the men who hunt coyotes.
And the whining farmers who get paid
for not growing corn and wheat.
The same to the National Enquirer.
Also Madonna (Saint Evita, indeed).
Yes, add the gutless Tower of Babel
that they call the United Nations.
Fuck every gangbanger in America.
Fuck furiously the drive-by shooters,
the carjack thugs, the Colombian coke cartels.
And the ghost of Richard Milhous Nixon.
Okay, add the yuppie-hillbillies who mess up
the powerspray carwash when they come down
from the hills with half the earth clinging
to their new four-wheel drives.
Fuck my neighbor who beats his kids.
And my other neighbor who has plastic
life-sized deer in his front yard.
And Tommy’s Used Cars in Chadron, Neb.

Fuck my high school coach for not starting
me in the ‘64 State Championship game.
Fuck the first bar I puked in.
That first cigarette I ever smoked.
That first pussy I ever touched.
Fuck it again, Sam.
And that know-it-all Larry King
and his stupid suspenders.
Fuck the Creative Writing programs
and all the Spam poets they hatch.
And the air that blew Marilyn Monroe’s
dress up over her waist.
Fuck you very, very much.
Fuck the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The ATF for the Waco massacre.
And sissy boy George Will.
And Sam Donaldson’s wig.
Fuck the genocidal Serb soldiers;
may their nuts roast in napalm hell.
Fuck all the booze I ever drank. Yes, include
the hair of the dog that bit me for
more than twenty drunken years.

Fuck a duck!
And the '60s and all that righteous reefer.
Fuck James Dean and his red jacket.
John Wayne and the gelding
American horse he rode in on.
The IRA and their songs and bombs.
And the Gila monsters in Arizona.
Bob Dylan for leading me astray
for three misty, moping decades.
My gall bladder for exploding.
Fuck The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot
and all those useless allusions.
Fuck war in every form and all other clichés.
Fuck no, double-fuck the Vietnam War.
Every cruel act I ever committed.
Every random act of kindness.
And the undertaker who will gaze
upon my dead and naked flesh
and wince at my lack of tattoos.
Fuck O.J. Simpson and his Ginsus.
Fuck Jesse Helms, and when he dies,
wormfuck him good in his grave.
Fuck the prarie dogs.
The mosquitoes.
The immaturity of MTV.
Those Monster Trucks.
Mother Teresa. Jesus, just kidding.
The Information Superhighway.
F*U*C*K the L*A*N*G*U*A*G*E poets
and fuck rodeo cowboys in their chapped
and bony butts and boots.
Fuck the gutless Guardsmen
who were at Kent State; may they still
have night horrors after all these years.

Fuck all those, who because of this and that
and a touch of cowardice on my part,
I neglected here to name.
Fuck Alzheimer’s Disease.
And all the things my woman
cannot remember.
Fuck all the things my woman
cannot comprehend.
And time. It only confuses her.
Fuck dog spelled backwards.
And fucking. We don’t do it anymore.
And death. Almost an afterthought.
Fuck it. Fuck it short and tall.
Fuck it big and small.
Fuck it all.
Fucking A. Fuck me.
Never mind. I’m already fucked.

They say there’s a promise
coming down that dusty road.
They say there’s a promise coming down
that dusty road, but I don’t see it.