Dirty Friends

My dirty friends and I talk dirty in private and public.
We the dirty, sanctified profane, mud spitters.
We the dirty music of living bother.
We the basement orators licking mold.

When we say gun we mean penis.
When we say fire we mean the act of losing the gun to its purpose.
When we say target we mean the regret of the immediate afterward.
When we say empty clip we mean not again we have a communal headache.

“I have a dirty Bible written on lambskin.
I tear the pages out to wrap my gun in.
I pass the Bible around for my dirty friends to use.
I’m a dirty boy so precious you want me to talk dirty.”

Ooooooh, so the lovely, aren’t we the lovely?

Sometimes we use the dirty words to talk sense.
Sometimes we don’t want to but we do it because you want to.
Even if you’re not here when we do it we do it.
Thank us after, spank us, make us come hard again.

So little a word as the obvious four-letter verb all purpose is beyond us.
So we invent a new finger for it.
So we stick the new finger up in it.
So we are the dumbasses with our fingers in our love.

Don’t you love how we smell, we dirty talkers?
Sort of mushroom and the hot new grass after mowing.
We pastoral because talking dirty is impossible on a farm.
We farm so you can see us farm dirty, manure, guns, varmints, words.

Nothing you don’t say to yourselves.
Nothing you haven’t thought of all clean in a rec room.
We the dirty songbirds say that’s all right, little lambs.
Dirty songbirds off the bathtub rails not clean ourselves, just for you.

Every dirty word is a scapegoat bell tinkling running from tribe stones.
Every dirty talker knows this and keeps the clean mouth for some.
We and ugly, dirty friends of ours do the big talk you won’t.
Thank us, kiss us, make us a hard drink, admit one with coupon, let us be.