To Georges

To Georges


David Piersol




Dear Georges,

Dearest sweet mystic of mine, you saint.

My boy Venus, philosopher of purest love.

I’m cute so you’ll feed me lesser animals,

& that makes you the animal-killer here.

You talk about “violating” this or that,

but you’ve got it backward: killing is

the parody of fucking, and you are

just a pervert. But latter-day libertine

of mine, don’t repent of your delusions,

your petty sickness and obsession—

kill, if you can indeed, by fucking.


Translation of dying from castration

into dream-speech: sailor is a sad

surgeon. Iron fists couple low &

slips squeals or noises pop apart.

What noises? Pleuronaut red lines,

ant colony grown in my frontal lobe.

Are you under the quivering lamprey?

Need point that smear at me need

the sickly red-brown scraped in my

eyes & the stench in my nose. Then,

sour burgeoning of all fuck and die.

& join the sign to the sun to open up.

Frankenstein near-annotated in derelict

warehouse by imperious pervert.

Tainted possum chases wain of cock.

Is this any consolation? Uh let me

check let me it smells like springtime

like green leaves and new drug laws.

The coil loops dance, they’re

violently and joyously animated.

[We were born merely to become scars.

We live life in crooked & dark rooms.]


An immense crashing wave is to image

as my love to the massive & scandalous

erection that is you your body & mind.

You are not the sneering aristocrat.

Be the flag, thrust into earthworms.

Be the joy of filth, suck pustules.

Be the tree, shattered thunderstruck.

Be the dog, kiss the anus of god,

make judgment and forgiveness stop.


With Love,




David Piersol is a new poet and scholar living in New Mexico. He has been published in Conceptions Southwest. He can be found rambling about theory, esoterica, and assorted nonsense on Twitter at @dparasole.

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