An Officer and a Gentleman and Another Officer


They dismount their horsies.
The thrill of the cold strikes the sparkle of the snow on her white-cloth poncho.
When the sun peaks out the officers snap in unison without looking at each other.

The gentleman doffs his top hat.
He spins and ruffles his tails, and rabbits pour out of the hat, too many for the eye to grasp.
The officers look at one another as if they don’t know what to say, and what they say makes her     nervously grin.

The pink sky washes off the remaining stars.
Her breath is muffled and quick in the sea of white fur and frightened pink eyes—all ready to burst.
When they do burst, the officers will ride down the gelatinous waterfall—arms raised.

You can feel their ruffly uniforms stir.
You can smell the dried blood from the slaughter and you can find the valley with the endless rabbits     on spits.
You can find her rustling her long dark hair, and the snows shake off before she bites the meat from     the bone.

Cunt Splice

The Arabs will win
and we will be flotsam
grasping to our paper or plastic megaphones
in our robes.

Still image from Digital Film, "Decapho" by Jack A. P. Young-Teen

Two Man Crew

In zero gravity
Xeroxes, not
photocopy,
of our dirty

asses multiply
into the starry curve
of the Milky Way,
our dumb flesh,

atrophied from years
in the blackest space,
smelling of black truffle
and the fine rumple

of the bread skin
our teeth chomped
into on a night
of sincerest ravening.

You, crimped smallish
features, shaved chest,
marketable chest.
Your nipples like tiny pricks

stick against mine,
we line ours up,
mine to yours.
Little treasures

mix into our nerves
like two vaginas perched
on the edge of a steep plateau.
They watch for the giant

animals now searching
the irradiated pine groves.
We begin our ritual
friction into simultaneous

simulated ecstasy.
We plant suppositories inside
of one another, mine and yours.
I supplant, Marxist at heart,

the circles of hell inside you,
pretending to karaoke
while strangling
you near death.

You, the mestizo from Peru,
I, the expatriated Prussian,
both of us marked for death,
roam in our rocket,

our totems, horse and moth
respectively, chase behind
us, following the feathered
Xeroxes of our behinds

we blew from the airlock
that trail us like so much moondust
stuck in the pits of our moonboots.
We, like the others,

search for slips of space-food,
items of wealth in a space
flooded with dust, starved
for oxygen.

                                             by Logan Trojan

All emails to: thegallantpig@dickpigreview.com

[photo credits: "The Dick Pig" splash image is copyright Bartholomew. Photo of the editors is copyright Fatbody McCray.]