Will I say?

When my number is up
and I lie helpless on my mobile
state of the art electric bed,
will I mind if they call me “darling”?
When I have lost control of my bowels,
wear pads in my pants, a tube on my dick,
my piss in a bag down the side of the bed,
will I mind being called “sweetheart”?

 
Will I mind having my pants pulled down,
my arse wiped by a teenager in uniform?
What will I feel lying stark naked while
she lifts my balls for a bed wash,
removes the sheets I have soiled?
Will I care when I fart in her face,
and burp while she inserts a straw
between my dry lips, to ease the passage
of those putrid pills I don’t have
the muscle to swallow?

 
When they have rolled me from side to side,
side to side again, creamed my crack,
brushed the shit from my nails,
squirted stuff in my armpits,
stuffed my arms into pyjamas,
done my buttons, lifted my flabby legs,
socked my swollen feet, shaved my double chin,
talked down to me in practised platitudes,
covered me up, patted me down,
and then ask – “how does that feel?”
If I can still speak, will I say how I feel?
will I say how,
it actually,
fucking,
feels?

 

John Ling, aka Juicy John, having spent ten years working with autistic kids,  has learnt lots of ways to annoy people in charge. He now spend my days (seriously) in conflict resolution, and sending up all sorts of people in his writing.

Playgirl

When in her nineties she expired,

some they hated, some admired.

her pros and cons, her louche style,

the fabled Playgirl Mansion pile

wherein she held those naughty nights.

No down at heel unheard of Joes,

no writers of unflattering prose,

no hacks or fans of human rights,

but names, celebs and shining lights,

whose names she kept in little books,

the ones she’d chosen for their looks,

who queued for months to be invited,

humiliated but excited.

 

 

 

She had her rules for proper dress,

while waiting tables, serving drinks.

Age seventeen to twenty five,

with rippling six packs, bulging pecs,

bare legs, no beards, no gays or queers,

they wore a furry leotard,

and on their heads two floppy ears,

a studded collar, swinging tails,

her Playgirl Puppies, clean shaven males.

 

 

 

And every night she chose a few

to take upstairs for what they knew

would be a time of exploration

of various styles of copulation.

Some videos they watched at leisure, her

aim to show them ways to pleasure her.

 

 

 

Her female guests, no men, no boys,

would drink, indulging in the joys

of ogling guys like lewd voyeurs

and pinch their bums dressed up in furs.

At top of table she would sit

so thankful that she had the wit

to publish Playgirl magazine

that brought about this happy scene.

My Playgirl puppies know their station.

No question of objectification.

As for cries of exploitation,

she said its only recreation.

 

John Ling, aka Juicy John, having spent ten years working with autistic kids,  has learnt lots of ways to annoy people in charge. He now spend my days (seriously) in conflict resolution, and sending up all sorts of people in his writing.

Mosquito mosquito

Da humble mosquito
he cannot be beato
he know what to eato
he see me as meato
my arms and my feeto
he think are a treato
with books I will beato
but he is so fleeto
he jump and he cheato
his skill is completo
he fly off so neato
and should I succeeto
in squashing a ‘squito
three more mafi-ito
arrive incognito
dey turn up da heato
my arms and my feeto
dey crucify meto !
I lie in my sheeto
and dream of reveto !
But da clever mosquito
he never be beato

 

John Ling, aka Juicy John, having spent ten years working with autistic kids,  has learnt lots of ways to annoy people in charge. He now spend my days (seriously) in conflict resolution, and sending up all sorts of people in his writing.