The poet known as Bikerbrayds is an inveterate bicyclist who often pedals scores of miles on weekends, his wheels to the road, his face to the wind, his heart on fire, his soul soaring into realms which only true poets dare.

ENCIRCLING HERENGRACHT
Reflections on the leaves, the lives, and love drift by:
I might have caught a glimpse of me
or barely caught the echo of past love on corridors--
canals of autumn's cold, wet hallmark.
Red-lit women windows warm the night
of tourist men whose glands need prodding:
fluid are the schemes,
delft of white on white, man on woman, man on man, or swan.
Not age, nor homeland, race, nor tongue
present a barrier, tear the lace
or fabric of going down and shooting off
the orifice of love;
But prick the being with fullest might
like sweet hashish or sweet-sweat arse of man on fire
where I should love to feast forever.

--Bikerbrayds
--November 1992
--Amsterdam

PASSION PLAY
St. Louis is not a saint
It's a place
I've been to only once
on the sabbath
midnight mass
He took me there
under his strong arm, his frame
and he became god
taking every last inch of resistance
he altered my state
and devoured my will for his pleasure
belonging to him was my pleasure
He took me up seven stories
and I took him down seventeen
I worshipped his frame.

HARDSWALLOW
I eat the unborn children
borne in the test tubes of men's balls
shot up fire escapes of fierce lust
beating out the golden egg

between feasts,
as though in famine,
i worship at the shrine,
the shaft of man's existence,
the plow that rapes and harvests the earth;
rain-dance prayer
circling ceremony of my tutored tongue,
i carve the ivory spire and
turning heads hand-held first sow the seed on Mecca

i prostrate my christian soul
and cover my head in hairs between warmth and flesh:
the source of life and satisfaction
and spewing, foaming at my mouth
saliva churning semen
stripped of christian name and legend
in the light of moon and heat of harvest
hungry
i become,
simply,
man transmigrant
to Paradise of love between two men
where i am born again

DESTINATIONS
You leave me defenseless
Terribly guilty
Sorry, so sorry

But it gets lonely on the hill
And even on the bus
I like the church
I like your prayers better
'Cuz they don't go anywhere
And you've paid to send them there
Go to hell

GRABBING ASS

those escapades
when ass made the grade
formed a fast fixation
on the rearview mirror
of this man whose anal capacity
outweighed his mental

 

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