S. Sel-yksir is a young Burmese poet living in Moldova. As a member of his
homeland's Rohingya minority he began dreaming of living elsewhere. Since he had
no travel allowance, nor in fact any money at all, he conceived a daring plan,
and sailed to Europe on a freighter as a stowaway. Stolen cans of ngapi helped
keep him alive during the long boatride. In Marseilles he succeeded in safely
debarking in a crateful of silks. He slipped out of the box later the same day
and cut through some corrugated metal siding with a tool he had brought. A
new world lay before him. His English was acquired as a child from an imam who
thought he showed promise. He now lives with a Moldovan gentleman, with whom he
sips wonderful Moldovan wines and shares a bed. They are planning to get married
in Luxembourg soon.
This is the fifth poem submitted to us by S. Sel-yksir.
Ode to O'Reilly
(with gratitude to The Penn Review)
I recently got some free advertising
for our new fannygel "ASS ELIXIR"
from a plugger who ordered a tube to lube
up his babydoll when he ass-pricks her.
Thank you so much, dear Mr. O'Reilly
(the name of my new sponsor/client)
and may I suggest that you try some too
when our complimentary giant-
sized dildo arrives in the mail for dollface
to employ when role-switching to dude―
(just be sure to douche before she inserts it
since any poo smell could kill the mood.)
This is the fourth poem submitted to us by S. Sel-yksir.
Teaching Donald To Hit The High Notes
He sang a different tune when I
Applied my art to ass and thigh;
The music was so sweet to hear
I broke two whips across his rear.
Nor were his back and legs exempt
From what his rump received while bent;
Nor did he wake from dreams at dawn,
But begged for mercy all night long.
S. Sel-yksir indicated that the third poem he submitted to us (immediately below) was written in honor of a much-revered American poetry critic.
Victory Arch View of a Terrorist Manqué
I looked awhile the other day
at a figure staring out from a square
who I knew saw the world like a renegade Arab
craving to butcher infidel prey.
Vain-looking, bearded, not too butch to be gay,
vaguely chubby-cheeked, like a cherub,
atop his noggin he sported a chic
shock-and-aweish elite-corps beret.
The first two poems S. Sel-yksir submitted to us (below) address the current American political crisis.
A Vote For You're Fired
Bigotry is The Sacred Disease―Heraclitus
is looking a bit surreal
with the Moral Majority's tweeting idol
powerdrunk at the dreadnaught's wheel.
His heart surely seems to be in the job
with his daily delivery of kingly decrees
all duly inked with curious graph-spikes
He says he embraces "the forgotten"―
i.e., those that helped him pull off the coup―
as if they had somehow been so mistreated
that everyone else deserves a "screw you."
But when were their equal rights denied?
And when were they sent to the back of the bus?
And when were they traumatized, murdered or jailed
for not looking or feeling like us?
Only lately have people far longer forgotten
been safer from stigmatization and worse;
and it clearly is they who should most be remembered,
not the torturing bigots, who are mankind's chief curse.
Note to The King, His Fundamentalist Cronies, and Those Longest Forgotten
To him who thanks to all "the forgotten"
has accroached to himself all authority
I say it's pure rot deeming everyone rotten
but your precious Moral "Majority."
To those divine rightists who gave you power
to issue your daily royal decrees
I say you unleashed a man from a tower
akin to the heirs of old monarchies.
To those too briefly franchised I say
it's vital to fight for remaining remembered
and to not let your rights be snatched away
or your hardwon gains be surrendered.