Thursday, February 19, 2009

Chesty Morgan

Wednesday, February 18, 2009


By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Chesty Morgan contemplated having breast reduction surgery

And looking for a McJob.

Her huge breasts hung down so low

She was unable to cook breakfast on the stove.

Her tits would flop out of her negligee

And end up plopped into the frying pan,

Scrambling the eggs and burning her nipples.

At the age of 75,

They almost reached down to her labia.

Chesty had deep indentations on her shoulders

From the weight pressing down on her bra straps.

I bought a DVD, from the Net, of Chesty Morgan’s two starring roles on film.

Not porn, just campy soft-core exploitation silliness.

No sex, just lots of bare boobs.

I was fascinated by her appendages.

Chesty possesses the largest breasts I have ever seen in my life.

I sat mesmerized, as if I were watching the landing of a UFO.

She made her living from those ta-tas

But it must have been a nuisance to own them.

It would be like carrying 50 pounds of groceries with you

Everywhere you went.

In these two movies, Chesty wears bad blonde wigs,

Hideous, flowery Seventies clothes and five inch platform heels.

Her voice is dubbed because of her thick Polish accent,

I am told.

Is she the fifth Wonder of the World?

Having sex with her would be like screwing a waterbed!

Her teeth are kind of rotten at the back

Making me wonder if she has dragon breath.

The midriff bulge spills over the sides of her tight skirts.

Her breasts cascade out of the front of her enormous brassiere.

The screen is saturated with washed out reds and turquoise

Because the film stock has deteriorated in 35 years.

The tinny music reminds me of my wild youth.

I’m sure millions of men would love a wife with tits that big.

I want to meet Chesty Morgan and ask her about her stripping career.

I understand that, even to this day,

Pushing 80,

She still gardens in a halter top,

Frightening the neighbourhood children

And giving guilty boners to all the frustrated teenage boys.

Chesty was in Fellini’s “Casanova” but ended up on the cutting room floor.

You can watch a clip from the outtakes on YouTube.

A friend of mine went to see her strip at the Victory Burlesque Theatre on Spadina

Back in the late Seventies, when she was hot.

Chesty, you are a work of art, my dear.

A trailer trash diva made of fine cut crystal.

Bless you.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

My Lost Bed

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I mourn my lost bed,

Covered in clear plastic and thrown out in the trash.

There was no lover in it to pitch out with the orange peels.

I’m sleeping on the floor on a cream coloured carpet

And rolled up pink blankets to soften the blows.

I mourn my lost bed.

It made loud, strange noises every time I moved.

Louisa came for a Reiki treatment and leered,

“This wouldn’t be good for sex.”

There’s more room in the apartment, now,

But my spine misses the comfort of the mattress.

My loins miss the bliss of a lover’s touch.

I’m surfing in Hawaii.

Calling my agent from my sun-drenched deck at Malibu.

I’m walking the red carpet at Cannes

And holding a Golden Bear at Berlin.

I’d like a bed the size of my whole apartment,

Full of hunky floozies and scented candles,

Eating grapes and puking in marble buckets at my Roman orgy.

I lament the burial of my bed,

The first one I ever bought, myself, as an adult.

I’ll pretend I’m camping out at Algonquin Park

Instead of this hard floor and my soft daydreams.

Money in the bank.

Food in the fridge.

Lust in my belly and love between the sheets.

“Come home with me, baby.

We’ll start a life together, if you like.

We can make love on the floor.

I’ll make you feel so good,

You’ll think you’re on cloud nine.”

How’s that for a pick-up line?

My back aches.

I’ve never not had a bed.

Never dreamed I would live without one.

The bedbug epidemic stole my sweet nest.

Can I share yours, maybe, if you wouldn’t mind?

It’s not so bad.

I’ll imagine I’m a boy scout in a pup tent in the backyard.

I’ll invite my best friend for a sleep-over on the cold ground.

The two of us can fool around when it gets dark

As we both pretend to be asleep.

We’ll wake up in the morning in sticky pyjamas

With guilt in our 14 year old eyes.

My bed is dead but it’s not the end of the world.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Hey, Mr. Bigot!

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

Hey, Mr. Bigot!

Why do you care what I do in bed?

Mind your own fucking business.

If I want to eat baked beans and stick a trumpet up my ass

Then play Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,

Why should you give a shit?!

I’m not asking you to watch my sexcapades on video,

For Christ sake.

Everyone’s gotta have someone to hate.

Maybe this faggy gay boy routine of mine

Is really just a ruse to pick up women.

If feel like Lily Tomlin in “The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe”.

One of her characters wears a T-shirt that says,

“Leave Me Alone”.

Hey, Mr. Bigot!!

Why did you bash my brother on the street?

I’m surprised you could tear yourself away from the football game on TV.

Hey, Mr. Bigot!

Maybe me and my friends in the Fruit Brigade

Are gonna hunt you down in a van, late at night.

Take you home and tie you spread-eagle to the bed

And cut off your limbs with a chain saw.

Oh, look what you made me say!!

I’d rather force you to do yoga

Or, God forbid,

Paint a picture of my naked body.

No, better not.

You might get excited and that would really blow your mind, baby.

I’m the kind of guy who swims with the dolphins

And watches Elizabeth Taylor movies on TCM.

You want to fuck her, Mr. Bigot, don’t you?

And I want to wear her priceless jewellery.

Hey, man.

Let me whisper in your ear.

“Just calm down and open your heart,”

I might be inclined to say.

I’m just trying to pay the bills.

Just looking for someone to love.

A man with feet of clay who won’t run screaming into the night

When I say, “I want to see you, again.”

Hey, Mr. Bigot!!

Get off my back and I promise not to climb on yours.

Get your hair streaked.

Bye a purple shirt.

Get some amethyst beads.

Take a meditation class.

Go beat off in a rosebush

But just fuck off and leave me alone.


I promise not to tell your wife when I see you on Church Street in drag.

I won’t tell anyone when I discover you in a dark car at midnight

Paying some teenage hustler to give you head.

Your wife doesn’t know that you go to bedbug motels

And pay hookers an extra $20 to give you a rim job.

Just lend me your red pumps.

No one needs to know but you and me.

Why was there cum on the bashed in head of the half-dead queer?

It seems, Mr. Bigot, that you really got off,


When you cracked my friend with a baseball bat.

Hey, babe!!

I’d like to stick your head in my toilet bowl next time I use it.

Then you’ll know what it’s like to eat shit on a regular basis.

Forgive me.

Here’s a flower.

Let’s do lunch.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

My Mute Playmates

Wednesday, February 11, 2009


By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

I fell in love with a bedbug, once.

It’s tendril of anaesthetic sent me into a stupor of ecstasy and bliss.

I told him all my secrets and he didn’t hate or mistreat me.

I was grateful for that.

I French-kissed a cockroach one lonely Saturday night.

I couldn’t find any willing guy so I figured a cockroach would do,

Just as well.

At least I was getting some cock, or so it seemed, at the time.

His feelers tickled me and made me laugh.

It was only a quickie so there was no chit-chat.

In fact, he scurried away before I could catch his name.

My best friend was a June bug for numerous years.

I liked the fact that he listened to my impassioned rants

And never argued with me or raised a hand, as if to strike me.

Yet I had a twisted affair with Gorgeous George for many, many years

And he hurt me more than the sting of a friendly bee.

My bee friend meant no malice when he jabbed me with his sharp needle.

He was only fulfilling his destiny and running on instinct.

Gorgeous George would yell at me.

Tell me I was a piece of shit.

Torture me with his words and deeds and force me to snort coke.

This curly-haired muscle-bound prick would try to sabotage my career

In sly and insidious ways.

I was dazzled by his Playgirl fa├žade and big, pouty lips.

I’d rather hop on the back of a grasshopper with not a care in the world.

Fly with the eagles, like I do in my dreams.

The bedbug would sleep quietly with me and bite me awake at dawn.

He would sit placidly on the table when I ate my breakfast.

George would be gone at 4 a.m.,

Leaving a whirlwind mess and anger and frustration in his wake.

The ladybug was polite to me.

I loved her sweet, caring smile.

No matter what I said, it never left her face.

She wasn’t like the fat Welfare worker who always called me a liar

When I told her the absolute honest-to-God truth.

My ladybug friend is so beautiful.

The shimmering colours of her attire always complement my clothes

When she triumphantly rides on my shoulder at social events,

Looking like a jewel-encrusted brooch.

Gorgeous George always has to call the shots or he explodes in venom and bile.

Who could have imagined that this rank puddle of vomit

Would be wrapped in such a voluptuous, appealing package?!

My critter playmates have all left me.

Disappeared into the night, like a vanishing circus act.

I’m stronger, now.

I no longer need them.

George has gone, as well.

But he’ll be back, if I allow it.

I miss the neon orange of the ladybug’s back.

Now, the bedbug bites with vengeance and revenge.

It’s sad, the way things turned out.