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Evil Polish Boners & Other Flarf Poems

Evil Polish Boners

I don’t know what it is about spandex suits for wrestling and rowing,
but they always seem to create the most evil Polish boners.

The Polish boner is a boner that the Polish boner team created
using Erasmus’ Erotic Tales of Defiant Men
mucus mud baths
and a bunny rabbit missing one leg
propped up in a child’s bicycle seat.
There is no escape from evil polish boners.
The symptoms are weird sex, broken English,
lookin’ like a dude dressed like a Romanian boy band
in babushkas on a honeymoon
and sleeping late with your friends’ glow sticks.

A Swiss man (“Sir Gingerbread Man”)
set out on a frantic mission to escape his own pale herbal
Polish boner.
In a bar, in a bra, a stubby Polish barman poured “Celtic Pride”
(green poo),
as a 3-legged Polish dog hopped over 3 wild Polish bulls
sleeping by a Polish banana
and 3 wisemen crawled over filthy stinking medieval sawdust
just to kiss the dick of an ant crawling up an elephant’s leg
in a ritual of self-selecting for laureates of the evil Polish boner.
Denouncing pork, Sir Gingerbread Man chewed off his own leg
and screamed:
I’m apt to salivate at the sight of mittens.
I am not horrified by the work of a chicken flicker.
I like mannish children the size of Lincoln’s ears.
I am for crisis licorice.

(I could handle what “Sir” did to me one experimental day,
providing it was freshly cleaned with alcohol and flushed.)

All I wanted was a Stromboli to blow.
I ended up with an icky, lounge-sized, leprechaun-gone-berserk
pale Polish boner.
It’s a bit like watching your shop teacher suddenly face down on Janet Reno’s springy, corkscrew hair.
Having a pale, evil Polish boner is like seeing an Inuit Corsican
in suede platforms and fabulous horse shoes
and all you can think of
is muppet skin.

Would you rather have an “8 kittens playing happy music
on a beach towel” figurine, or a golden butt plug you’ll never use?
If you answered yes,
you’re Polish.


Window installation by Justine Frischmann

Fisting as an Act of Faith

“Nothing but God
will fill the God-shaped hole.”
And so before fisting,
a Christian husband and wife
should pray together
and ask for divine guidance.
Both should treat the act of fisting
as a divine spiritual mystery,
following fisting with douching
and pluralism.
Because, though fisting gets a bad rap,
it provides millions of dollars
towards queering the schools.

With faith as its spiritual efficacy,
schools are teaching 6th graders about fisting,
rewarding each successful fisting
with a button.
The demonstration is proof of diversity
in a style that Jean-Luc Godard
would characterize as
Each fisting coach conveys the act
by showing a boy’s-eye-view
of Michelangelo’s Pieta
and anal fisting in the Sistine Chapel,
where the fist is like a rock against butter
expanding in diameter
and spinning ever faster
while grinning fisting champs
lean in.

In Goya’s masterpiece,
“The Second Coming of a Fist,”
a bloody fist can be seen
in front of the central figure of Jesus Christ
possibly representing the fact
that Jesus loves fisting Bono.
Bono, anally fisted by Christ at various gigs,
articulates his fisting self through words
and yoga movements
to share the incorporation of spirituality
with Christmas fisting.
His song,“The Ballad of Poopsy-kins
in Non-Ballad Form,”
smacks right out at the fisting moment
with its portrayal of blasé fisting
with a velvet glove in Iraq.
In fact, it goes above and beyond
mere spirituality
by its promotion of a twice-monthly fisting party
held in market warehouse,
run by a local chiropractor.

Fra Lippo Lippi,
Emperor Marcus Arelius,
Saint Anselm, Erasmus
and Thomas Gray
all sued somebody
for fisting-induced fibromyalgia.
Yes, “fisting” is exactly
what it sounds like.
Have a nice day!

I Have Thirteen Penises

—for Drew Gardner

My first penis so not is Don Ho’s reclusive pet alligator
My second penis is so not a gay figure skater
My third penis was never declared unconstitutional
My fourth penis is not the winner of the contest
for the coolest pimped cubicle

My fifth penis does not believe that unicorns are taking over
my fourth penis with lazers
My sixth penis never ever removed a brain tumor
using a taser
My seventh penis is not the sickly giraffe who swallowed
the small real pony
My eighth penis does not like to use Comic Sans
when lonely

My ninth penis is doing a background check on me
My tenth penis punched a werewolf in the face in Kentucky
My eleventh penis wants to know how come a cupcake
is not a mineral
My twelfth penis wants to know if any other planets besides
Earth are spherical

My thirteenth penis resembles—oddly—a whipporwill!

This Gorilla Called Philip Sidney

—for Roy Scranton

Miss Pamela ♀ (“The Aunt of Fear”)
invented the Elizabethan poet Sir Philip Sidney,
in whose cottage are found invisible clues to the sources
of Ted Nugent, wicked aboriginal stepmother
of Sir Philip Sidney.

This gorilla called Philip Sidney,
keeper of the shared surprise
of running naked through the Gorilla House,
wants to prove he can bring Uncle Esperanto
back from the dead.
I hear squirrels talking about this.

The 800-Pound Gorilla in the Room—
a Jewish Philip Sidney biting his own “truant penis”
(“look in thy heart / and expect / a 600-pound
truant penis”)—
passes Voldemort parmesan
in the shadows where I ruined my life,
then clawed my way back through 108
pig-hearted sonnets to my old familiar
dick-to-mouth existence.

One thing that I teach all my composition students
is that the gorilla promotion code is always
“Philip Sidney is Vienna’s Answer to Hash Browns,
Congo the Chimp Is Back in the Art World,
and You Have Zero Facts.”
—Philip Sidney, at the top of a tent pole,
scratching himself like a gorilla
in all his “nature places.”
The smell shall haunt me
to the end of days.

Bovinity Longs for Mer-men

—for Nada Gordon

Please kindly tell me again
how bovinity longs for mer-men.
Mer-men are he-mermaids: tritons, natives of the sea.
They drive through my lighthouse lily
with chagrined hydrology.
They rock my short jacket.

My own bovinity longs
for a pipe-harp zither dong.
Obviously my shallow breathing is needful of decency.
I ripen with burnt lumpy penis greed,
adapting my maggots to piracy.
After all, I took vixen clowning vows.

My resource dictionary lists a full alphabet
of mer-men shit intercourse on the Internet.
If I be handicapped, graze on idiosyncrasy,
if a Welsh harp shall twang to the cock-bird of sodomy,
then I shall weekend without reason, haircut, or glory,
but with a mer-man—and bovinity.

If I Could Marry Meat

If I could marry meat
I would marry pig faces, pig ears,
cow feet and the biggest slab of
Hispanic shopper ever.
Who doesn’t want to marry that?
Blood and raw meat
and flies landing everywhere.
What else would I marry?
The maggoty meat scene from
“The Battleship Potemkin”
goat head & lamb organs
& “flap meat”
(looks like something out of
“The Flintstones”).
You know how I would marry meat?
Get super fit with Spider Man
and smear it on the wall.
Bridesmaids would be
bacon bras and hot dog rakes.
Maid of honor:
deer antler candy.
Best man, either raw yak
or horse meat ham.
Maybe even jerky-flavored George W. Bush.
I see you all salivating over there.
All normal people want to marry meat.
Even Dutch people want to marry meat.
If I went to a barbeque and there was no meat,
I would say, “Today, me and Spider Man
will rip you humans apart like helpless worm fungus!”
Excuse the bear poop in the beginning;
I messed up.
But you know what’s damn sexy?
Star Trek mirror-meat episodes,
Mila Kunis being Ukrainian for the Meat Olympics,
and the meat-based lifestyle of Mrs. Wheelbarrow
on regular-ass TV.
And all that mad cow going around.
Man, I gotta go.
I gotta go marry me some meat.
I’m gonna go marry me some duck tongue.
And then I’m gonna sit back and watch all you goddamn honky haters
put on your boogie shoes.

George Washington’s Totally Gay Fupa

Did George Washington grow his own gay fupa?
How long did it take? Was he a gay from the 1790s?

Click me, bitch: George Washington was totally gay
for Abe Lincoln, and in heaven James Polk and Ronald Reagan

are gay lovers, totally gay, and Gay Al’s fupa-manpussy
is going to pucker like crazy over this shit.

Teabagging (on the street with a George Washington fupa ostrich)
is totally old. And doing Sudoku w/your fupa? Totally old and gay.

Instead of being totally insecure about his sexuality,
George Washington gave his life for man-fupa/camel toe.

I was trying to explain man-fupa/-camel toe to my mother, and she said:
“The electorate should not be subjected to this mess.”

Personally, I grew up among the fupa-botoxed People of Wal-Mart
fighting for freedom in the boat that crossed the Delaware

and my butt looks like an old plastic grocery bag
with a little water at the bottom—OMFG! I do have a fupa!

Would you all hate me if I had a fupa? If so, my fupa will have Barbie, Ninja Turtles
and Mel Gibson guarding it.

Dear Advice Fupa: I am a SAPWAF (Socially Awkward Penguin With A Fupa):
do I take off my robe and wizard hat when I suicide on the plantation

from “The Plantation Suicide of the Wizard of Oz”

OK, you know that poem I posted yesterday, “Chicks Dig BP Fupa”?
And you know the poem you posted the day before, “Chicks Dig Fupa”?

I was totally oblivious to the presence of “fupa” in both titles.
I mean, I read your poem and loved it, but I somehow thought I was only riffing

on the fupa meme, and not just ripping off your whole concept.
How I was unaware of it is a complete mystery to me.

Obviously the war on fishing-for-fupa blowjob killers who require additional
goose knees isn’t working—how the fuck do you throw up a fupa?

‘Cause I think I just did.

I Am A Naked Sleigh Ride Unicorn College Girl


A naked sleigh ride unicorn college girl symbolizes an orgasm.
A wide awake angst goddess on a naked sleigh ride unicorn
symbolizes “I felt like a pioneer woman.”


Many couples go their entire swinging career without bagging
a college girl that is a virgin.
When someone sleeps w/a naked sleigh ride unicorn college girl,
there is no way that girl can be a virgin.


To prove you are a naked sleigh ride unicorn college girl,
make angry and wild horse noises at Six Flags
with a single, straight male, who isn’t a complete dickhead.
Might be difficult.


Person 1: I’ve seen a naked sleigh ride unicorn college girl circle-jerk.
Person 2: I give credit to Christopher Lee.


Faeires versus zombies versus unicorns versus vampires:
“They had weird shaped penises & I was their naked sleigh ride unicorn!”


Unicorn: “I didn’t even know werewolves and unicorns were enemies.”
Naked Sleigh Ride Unicorn: “That baby on the right’s legs look all weird.”


Weird meat = Chinese low-polygon unicorn sex with 32 minutes
of bippety-boppety electro sounds:
“I’d like to build a giant machine that pees in the desert and dies up the seas”
—Greta Garbo
Dear God, no.

I Am Mormon-Hot

I am hot.
Oh my effing God, I am sick-hot.
Ich bin ein-Mormon hot.
Mormon-Fight-In-A-Clown-Car hot.
And that includes soup.
World’s-oldest-freestanding-pagoda-visited-by-Mormons hot.
Married-Mormon-Graduate-Students-On-Welfare hot.
weeping-hot-tears-behind-3D-glasses hot.

Feminist Mormon Housewives + Bath Time = hot.
Mormon Mommy Wars >>> The Agony that is Weaning:
hot showers, self-pump, bacon and hot dogs . . .
Postum … Twinkies … hormones … the Book of Mormon tells us
that women are really hot Mormon men who,
once inside the body, mimic estrogen.
Even though the Mormon church is based on
a 14 year old’s dreams and fantasies,
the Mormon mega-dance phenomenon—
fog machines, cool deejay, earsplitting music, wallflowers, cliques—
is not just cute but four full hours of profuse palpating man sweat.
Palpating Mormon man sweat.

I’m blaming Mormon hormone replacement therapy
that Women are from Venus, Men are from where
only God has blonde chicks hanging all over him.
Celebrated Christmas greeting amanuensis Laura Bush
must be a Mormon,
‘cause If you’ve ever looked into her eyes,
you know she’d be the first to share a comforting bowl
of hot, buttered polygamist squirrel
with the entire hormone-charged mosh pit of 2008’s Mormon Prom.
Which is where, by the way, I found my very own
Mormon-hot utopian dream:
twelve handsome returned missionaries
eating cold hot sauce
in a hot tub UFO time machine.


Do You Like Fucking Ugly People?

Fucking ugly people
calls one to an irresistible bliss
of jeweled pre-cum ingots.
Love semi-precious emerald?
Love anxiety after ether?
Then fuck an ugly person.
Wait a minute . . . I **am** an ugly person—
fuck me!
I look like steaming mangled pumpkins.
A great big man accidentally tied his horse to me.

Do you like dandruffy fascists
speaking exclusively in alexandrines?
Then you’ll love my Fugly Linear B.
Go ahead—make my vowels move with your mouth.
I’m Greek in the middle with a hard carapace,
creeping into Walgreens in the crepuscule to steal ribbons.
My ugly tightrope curves will moisten with extreme prejudice
your free Hindu sexy pants, indicating no need to download
memorable couplings across the monumental bridges
of our national landscape.
Interested in a tantric sex potion of Gandhi’s dirty dhoti intertwined with the poignant anguish of luscious breasts?
Then I’m your ugly person.
Follow my directions
while balancing on a stanchion
and you can ride my ugly bike behind me
in the back of a station wagon parked by the airport.
My parents won’t be home, and I’ll be faking a nap for romance
like in those paintings of fin-de-siecle decadence
where womens are naked in a leaf drift & Nature is powerless against my ugliness.

Mary Poppins was right:
as an ugly person,
it’s hard to feel self-worth, self-respect,
and self-esteem when you go to an ugly job
in an ugly world.
Perhaps you need to overcome feelings
of regret and sorrow over your
Elephant Man-like hideousness.
Youth and beauty fade,
fortunes can be lost,
but ugly people,
and fucking them,
are eternal.
Will you still be ugly
in the glorious, Christ-centered
You might be many things,
but the one thing I know I will be
is ugly.

My “My Little Pony” Breasts Are Minimally Gay For You

My vagina is not as red
as people think
tho my “My Little Pony” breasts are
minimally gay for you.

In a bar alone with My Little Gecko
I am the only one having fun
with my “My Little Pony” breasts.
During viparitarata on the Armajani bridge
with volunteers in the “no vagina” group
I fight Lindsay Lohan’s Facebook friends
with my “My Little Pony” breasts.

I get a weird feeling thinking
about my “My Little Pony” breasts
inside my vagina.
I get a weird feeling listening
to the Cocteau Twins.
I get another kind of weird feeling
when I think about the cloud of weird gas
fills my sinus cavity
(which is the weird feeling part)
and water is running
where it normally shouldn’t—
on Joe Biden’s bulge.
Memo to Joe Biden:
I looked down
and there was a
little bump,
then a bulge,
and it was moving.
Maybe you have a demented
Hoover Dam

This next bit begins
a little ominously:
I was four years old the first time
I tried to show off my vagina.
A little boy and I decided to pony up
my “My Gay For You Little Pony” breasts
to drive Jewish people’s
demons out.
A vagina can cause
so much happiness
so easily. Wow. I have no words.
That’s not true:
a Shetland pony
on pixie dust
looks like Heather Locklear
shagging my “My Little Pony” breasts
for really average, everyday,
normal Americans.

Position of the week? “My Little Pony”
eating “My Little Gecko”
in a swing state.
(If you think I wouldn’t sleep with
my “My Little Pony” breasts
have you met my breasts?)

If my “My Minimally Gay For You
Little Pony” breasts can survive the next 200 years
and learn to live in space,
then our future will certainly be bright.

This is how my beautiful tone poem

–Sharon Mesmer

Sharon Mesmer reading Flarf poems at the Sensitive Skin #10 launch party, October 5, 2013 at Tribes Gallery in NYC.

Get this piece and more when you buy issue #10 in PDF format here for just $5.95, or get the full-color print version via Amazon and select bookstores.


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