1. How They Fucked (In Three Parts)
I
Well, yes, they fucked like bunnies, and yes, they fucked as if it was their last night on earth (when in fact it was early afternoon), but more than that, they fucked like so many, different other things completely.

They fucked like dogs and cats. They fucked as if they were fucking in the rain. they fucked as if were raining cats and dogs.

They fucked like cats and dogs from other planets, like a planet where a cat could be a land mammal and a dog could be a sea anemone, or a planet where a cat could be an insect and a dog could be still a dog.

They fucked as if the feeling of emptiness that flooded their souls was somehow mitigatable, as if they could be anchored to bliss by the metronomic pounding of their fucking.

They fucked as if Reagan had never been president. They fucked as if Reagan had never been born.

They fucked as if they were cyanobacteria, poisoning the planet through photosynthesis, breathing out oxygen that destroys most of the life on the planet but makes way for the oxygen breathers that might one day evolve in to human beings that could then start fucking like cyanobacteria.

When they fucked, it was if nothing else mattered, as if nothing else existed, because it didn’t.

They fucked as if their fucking could change everything, when in fact, it could only change certain things, most of which were of no consequence.

They fucked with pride and shame and honor. They fucked without fear of the aches and pains and sores and yeast infections that would no doubt ensue.

They fucked like jackasses on that show Jackass.

They fucked like records on a giant turntable while a needle slowly scratched them through their grooves.

They fucked and fucked and fucked so masterfully, that if they had been in a porno movie that you were jacking off to, you would have to stop and marvel at the wonder of it, because it was like a ballet, and you never could jack off to a ballet, could you? Could you?

They fucked like the first mammals to crawl out of the sea. They fucked like the mountains and the rocks and the trees.

They fucked like they would die a final death that would break the cycle of endless rebirth.

They fucked, then took a break then fucked again. Then fucked again.

They fucked like a totally different story. They fucked like something your small unevolved mind can’t imagine, like--you know how they say that the human mind cannot comprehend god or infinity, or that a flower cannot comprehend a garden? Well, you can’t comprehend their fucking. To ask questions of gender or species or number is to trivialize and to degrade their fucking. Their fucking was made to stand the test of time, to be written about in Wikipedia, under “Fucking,” to serve as a model for all that come after them --pun intended -- fuck you, yeah, pun intended.

They fucked as if they existed in a realm beyond time and space, greater than the universe, smaller than the subatomic.

Recordings of their fucking were made and put into time capsules, one of which wound up in the voyager rocket, to be discovered by life on other planets, who will watch it in wonder and say to each other, fuck me, those motherfuckers sure knew how to fuck.

They fucked and fucked, oblivious to my commentary about their fucking.

If it seems boring to think about how they fucked, you are free to stop considering it and go jack off or fuck or eat a sandwich or something. don’t let me keep you.

They fucked as if they were starving for sex, as if they hadn’t had it for centuries, when in fact, for one of them it had been relatively recently.

Man, you should have seen them going at it. Everybody should have. They should have sold tickets. They should have fucked in a grand arena. They should have made a movie of their fucking, it was fucking amazing--did you get that yet? The way they fucked was amazing. My words do not, will not, cannot, do their fucking justice. It’s a Sisyphean task to try to convey to you the majesty, the artistry, the pornographic beauty of their fucking.

The other day as I walked down first street, I saw a pigeon fucking another pigeon. That was nothing like this fucking of which I speak.

I’d like you to close your eyes and picture the most awesome fucking fucking you ever had.

That fucking was fucking bullshit compared to this fucking of which I now speak.

At any rate, and to conclude this first part of this three part poem, let me point out the obvious: we cannot compose like Bartok, we cannot play like Yo Yo Ma or Paganini or Hendrix, we cannot write like Shakespeare or sculpt like Rodin, or fight Godzilla like Rodan, or fuck like they did, but all these masters can inspire us all, so the next time I fuck, I will think of them all: the fuckers, Bartok, Ma, Paganini, Hendrix, Shakespeare, Rodin and Rodan.

And I will fuck with gratitude that I was born in at a time filled with so many inspiring figures.

II
The next day they began again. And because of their relief that last time wasn't their last time fucking after all, and partly because it was a new day, they fucked in an entirely new way.

The fucking was more intense this time. There was a persistent sense of pounding repeatedly into the same place, over and over, and of a wound gushing out like a fountain. They both saw it in the eyes of each other’s minds, and in the minds of each other’s eyes.

They fucked as if their immortal souls depended on it, even though they didn’t believe in mortality or souls.

They fucked as if they knew they were fucking for posterity, for the redemption of humanity, to help alleviate the suffering of all sentient beings.

III
It was good of them to fuck in such a selfless way, and to do so with such gusto and commitment.

I’m so glad they had that time together.

It was really quite considerate of them to fuck the way they did.

The next time I fuck, I will try to keep my mind focused in part at least on the way they fucked, because it should serve as a template for us all, and when all is said and done at the end of the day, I’d like to thank them for the excellent job they did fucking, and I’d like to ask you all to join me in giving them, as a show of our collective appreciation, a hearty round of applause. thank you.

c. 2012 John S. Hall