Chesty Morgan

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

CHESTY MORGAN

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.

My Lost Bed

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

MY LOST BED

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.

Hey, Mr. Bigot!

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

HEY, MR. BIGOT!!


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.

Please!


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,

I mean 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.

My Mute Playmates

Wednesday, February 11, 2009


MY MUTE PLAYMATES


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 façade 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.

The Bigot

Saturday, January 31, 2009

THE BIGOT

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

The plump English man looked at me

And boomed in a smug, superior voice,

“I’m a little bit homophobic,”

As if he were proud of the fact.

I was shocked and angry but attempted to make light

Of his disgusting, appalling bigotry.

Other people heard his putrid words but no one came to my defence

Or even attempted to shoot down his slurs.

There were jeers in his voice,

During the rest of our conversation.

It seemed obvious that he thought I was shit

And that he was vastly superior to me.

What if I were black and he’d said,

“I’m a little bit of a racist”?

Surely that would not have been socially acceptable behaviour

In enlightened, polite company.

We were in a room full of poets.

The stereotype of a poet is that we are lazy, indolent drug addicts and alcoholics

Who want to party all night and sleep all day

And occasionally write epic poems.

Is this an accurate depiction of the life of a typical bard?

The answer is that we come in all shapes and sizes

And live many different lifestyles.

William Carlos Williams comes to mind.

He wrote poems on prescription pads

Between visits from his medical patients.

We all have our prejudices.

I am one-quarter English

And have to admit that I am not fond of English men.

Many of them are macho bigots

But this, too, is a stereotype.

I’m not proud of this bias of mine

And continually fight against it,

Yet that homophobic writer certainly lives up to this image.

My English uncle, who was a bit of a macho bigot,

Once said to me, as we were driving in a car,

“Real men use a stick shift. They don’t drive an automatic.”

I thought it was one of the most asinine things I’d ever heard.

I imagined poets to be open-minded people

With their fingers on the pulse of the world.

Words of wisdom flow from their pens

And they love all humankind.

Now, what if I were a celibate homosexual

Who never engaged in sexual activity?

Would this zealot still despise me

Because of what I stand for?

I still remember the sneer in his voice

As he kept on interrupting me.

It seemed that my words were totally unimportant to him.

The look of contempt on his face!

I don’t buy bigotry and intolerance of any kind,

Either mine or that of other people.

I had to fight the urge to hit him over the heard

With a baseball bat and tell him he was a piece of shit.

We’re all just human beings fighting to survive

On this treacherous planet full of land mines and spilled blood.

If this ugly little man thinks that what I do in bed is disgusting

Then I have to surmise that his own sex life must be pretty boring,

With the missionary position being his #1 favourite.

After all, in the pitch black of the bedroom,

It could be a man, a woman or a succubus giving you a blow-job

And you couldn’t tell the difference.

DARINKA

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

DARINKA

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

My blonde friend Darinka is a bit of a nutcase

But I like her, just the same.

My friends have always been eccentric or downright certifiable.

Schizophrenic, bipolar, depressives,

They’re always drawn to me.

Darinka spends $400 on a black cocktail dress

But she has nowhere to wear it.

She buys it in a too-small size hoping it will force her to lose weight.

She cries poor mouth then tells me that she has $5,000 in her chequing account.

Darinka talks a mile a minute,

Fantasizing about being a famous screenwriter in L.A.,

Yet I find her poetry to be rather trite, I’m afraid.

This 50-something woman hasn’t had sex in over 20 years.

She doesn’t want to go out in the evening

And leave her frail mother at home.

My parents both decided to check out

Before they became a burden to their 5 children.

Darinka makes dates with me then cancels, at the last minute, because she is depressed.

I’d be suicidal, too,

If I hadn’t had any cock in 20 years

And stayed home every night with my mother.

Who wouldn’t?!

I met Darinka on a film set in Cambridge, Ontario.

We were spectators watching a marathon race in “Saint Ralph”

Starring the venerable Gordon Pinsent.

It was raining and I had holes in my hard, uncomfortable shoes.

By the middle of the first day,

My feet hurt so bad I could only walk on tiptoe.

We saw each other on sets over the next few months

And she started phoning me.

Darinka always says, “I’ll call you in a few days,”

Even though I don’t want to talk to anyone that often

Unless I’m regularly gnawing on their succulent flesh.

This woman has a kind heart but she frequently tells untruths.

She sometimes doesn’t show up for film shoots

And makes up bullshit excuses to her agents.

My friend spends $650 on a Fendi bag that, to me,

Is the epitome of ugliness.

To each his own!

Then Darinka says she can’t afford $25 for a Tarot card reading.

This middle-aged woman thinks she will never find a boyfriend

Or get laid ever again.

We all have our beasts to slay

But I’ll gladly take my troubles over hers,

Any day of the week.

Forgive me for these words.

Now, what would she have to say about me,

One wonders?

“You can do so much,” she tells me.

“I don’t understand why you don’t make $50,000 a year.”

Darinka has never lived away from home.

It’s a hard way to make a life.

Bedbugs Are Gods

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

BEDBUGS ARE GODS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

These celebrities think they’re so grand.

Little do they know,

But there are celebrity-stalker bedbugs on the red carpet.

They jump off the clothes of the cheering, dirty, poor people in the stands.

They crawl across crimson wool and jump on Kate Winslet’s leg.

They crawl up, tenaciously, and cling to her silk underwear.

As she is telling “Entertainment Tonight” about her love life,

They start munching on her inner thighs.

That’s why the stars always appear fidgety when they’re being interviewed.

Movie stars are caviar to a hungry bedbug

And they don’t even know it.

When Halle Berry became the first black woman to win the Best Actress Oscar,

She had a bedbug chewing on her armpit at the podium.

If you watch the clip on YouTube,

You’ll see her hand move close to her underarm.

Halle is trying to resist the urge to scratch her pits

In front of one billion people.

Bedbugs are everywhere.

A famous Canadian actress had bedbugs

In her mansion condo in Toronto’s Yorkville district.

She had to fly home from her movie shoot to arrange to have them murdered.

My bedbugs are my only real friends.

They keep me company at night.

They fulfill my exhibitionistic tendencies

When I bring home my beautiful buff lovers.

The creep-crawlies applaud our acrobatic lovemaking

And whisper encouragement in my tasty ears.

A cheeky man with a foul-smelling sprayer

Came and killed all my bedbug friends.

I’m still reeling from the pain.

I pay a high-priced escort to beat this guilt out of my system.

Bedbugs take a long time to die.

They wail like a martyred saint and swear like Vietnam vets.

I mourn the death of my bedbug lover.

He used to hop on board and accompany me to dance clubs,

Riding on my shoulder as I hopped around the dance floor.

My bedbugs serve as an alarm clock to save on my electric bill.

They love to feast at dawn, I’m told.

Every morning, they bite my sweet butt at 7 a.m.

So that I never oversleep for work.

Bedbugs are such loves.

They nibble on my earlobes and kiss my rosy cheeks.

They boost my confidence when I’m alone.

Let’s face it.

You’re never lonely when you have bedbugs.

They always come out at night to feast and greet me.

I don’t have to feed them, either,

Or change their litter box

Or walk them three times a day.

Bedbugs are the best thing that ever happened to me.

They changed my life.

I’m sorry,

But I’m getting all choked up

So I can’t continue this discussion.