issue55inacidreflux

                                   ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM

***BIO*** Dennis Mahagin's first book of poems is scheduled for publication in 2006 by
Suspect Thoughts Press. Dennis cordially invites you to visit his blog at: http://fourhourhardon.blogspot.com.

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in acid reflux dope dream # 86

by Dennis Mahagin

you are the Dog Faced Boy with
peppery traces of Starkist and Tuinal
on your lips washing down pain pills
with straight shots of Old Bushmills,

and Bon Scott
beckons the warm breeze
of Indian Summer Salad Days suffused with
5 O'Clock reek of Roquefort chunks right
on the verge of coming up.

Old Bon's cavern keen always in the
dreamwhistling through black tar pores of
paving patches and sidewalk cracks--

as you pop a whole dream roll
of Tums in your cotton mouth,
and check his rap:

"Oh I'm afraid it's true Major: drunks don't
get much of that sweet young pussy-- or any
pussy at all for that matter you're about

ninety-four times more likely to have your
cheesecake ribs kicked in at dawn by a pack
of blue-beard bakers with body odor than score
some righteous skank fresh off the wagon".

****

Then,
in the dream,

smoke-choked, wind-blown
creosote cinders from the ubiquitous
adolescent keg party start

piling up

on your lashes and lips like
nubbins of slag from a way-deep
heap-- and when you try to pucker
and blink it only seems to make
matters worse.

Much worse.

"Yeah..." Bon goes on. "You got to be some kind
of maestro-type-geezer to make a love life out of
three sheets always to the wind a la John Bonham
and Keith Moon covered in cunt juice and
high-fiving the Sandman

only to drift unawares into this
drowning dream of yours

where they
bang away on palsied ventricles forever like
brass Titanic portal knockers and

you three at
the bottom of the sea
so that nobody's

ever gonna know."

****

A little while later
the dream takes a Y-turn-- and

there is Cover Girl
Cheryl Tiegs kneeling and nodding
between your knees in the classic
cock-sucking pose and all the

while mister excitable
peripheral playground seagull

enthusiastically wraps his
burnt-orange beak
around a jumbo Alka
Seltzer pellet as though

madly digging the inside of an Oreo cookie,

and you remain mute even as
bird guts start exploding all over the sand spit
and Cheryl plunges your manhood deep
into the back of her throat.

"That's right, take it," whispers Bon Scott."Take
every filthy freaking bit of it you nasty little bird."

Cheryl's eyes
big round and wide like
bulimic ballerina chin-deep
in the glaze-glow

of freshest All Night Pastry Case,

and with a slurpy pop she comes
up off the cock just long enough
to whisper in your ear:

"Awwww baby, it's that taste in the
back of your throat. Right?-- like the
very first Speedball?-- ... And you didn't
know whether to hum or puke or
come in your pants and the

next hit

always like a cool lover's palm pressing
into clammy heaving brow about eight
inches above the maelstrom."

****

Dream Cheryl drools and
sways over your pubic patch
stinking of rainy day hay rides
and fruity shampoo;

then she
abandons your cock
altogether

in favor of two long
painted fingers which she slides firmly
into the wriggling uppermost
cleft of her tonsils.

When she's down to nothing

but dry heaves,
and your spent semen
pools like Milk of Magnesia on a moonlit
ridge of spooned rib,

she will bend
and try to kiss you

before you wake up, and

should your tongue get trapped
in her fetid front tooth gap that
shoots fountain arcs of hot aqua
blue bile in a pinch,

well we're well
into a
different dream

altogether
by then

the trick
is to just relax
your diaphragm and
let it all

come up--

saving the bedside Listerine for later when
that terrible taste in your mouth is damn near
impossible to get out.

Dec. 2005