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No Cure for French-Canadians.

Whenever I see pictures of Montreal,

I come without touching myself.

Montreal is one huge maggotry of hairy French-Canadian men

with hot and cold running Rabelais in their veins.

Oh, I am God-lost bent, nuts, crazed for humongously hirsute Quebecois.

They are crack Voltairean rabbit shots.

They have splendidly unAnglo backs and spines,

and quills on their shoulderblades and bums,

their 'staches drooping over the mouths of their juicy walk-in caves

and sideburns stiff with ancient pterodactyl cum.

Their assholes smell like the undersides of toadstools, sap, and pitch.

Cheeks parted, millipedes scurry out of sight.

Oh, helpless and hopeless sprat of hairless chihuahua Yankee surfer blonds, chow

down on these life-infested, spouting Cartesian schlongs.

Oh, bury your pallid Puritan pusses deep in the punishing depths of these prickly

Balzacian breasts.

Oh, pin their furry arms above their heads and sink your tasteless, untutored tongues

into the pungent Pascalian tangle of their inky universal pits.

Though faint with the aromatic thrust of dung-beetle-riddled Baudelairean buches,

feast, gnaw on the pale, antlered prongs and sprouts of Proustian Indian pipe,

inunct with the wild coniferous spray of the gnarled Sartrinaceous corkscrew oak,

all slant and ashoot yourself impaled on the merciless haft of the intussusceptive

Foucauldian hemlock stump.

If I pass a load of rough logs on the road, I come without touching myself.

If I hear a chainsaw chatter across the lake, I come without touching myself.

Whenever around the campfire I hear talk of clearcutting, board feet cordwood,

kindling, furnace junks, I come without touching myself.

I gnaw at the bushy eyebrows of my balding Turks,

I fawn on my fig-farting Pharisees,

I adore my belching, plush-bottomed Belges,

I worship my lemony, oxen-eyed Greeks,

so sable-bellied under all those robes!)

my sand-whippled Saudis (who would have dreamed

-- but bark-bummed French penseurs poilus are my true Ebola virus

-- with no effective vaccine -- and no known cure!
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Author:Morse, Carl
Publication:The Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide
Article Type:Poem
Date:Nov 1, 2001
Words:315
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