Robert Cooperman

TASERMAN

Man, this really pisses me off,
not being able to use this baby
on Traitor Pelosi and watch
the bitch dance the spastic chicken
when I zap her with 50,000 volts.
Blotto, baby! Blotto!

She and the other traitors
hid and ran, bunch of damn cowards,
but the Pelosi jackpot would’ve been
sweeter than the Wife’s apple pies—
when I convince her
my blood pressure ain’t that high—
for the medal Trump would’ve
hung around my neck!

The talk of the neighborhood,
hell, of the country, saving us
from those Democrats so smug
to steal the election: Trump,
the rightful winner!

But we couldn’t flush them out,
so nothing to do now
but march away, fists raised
in victory, while I text the Wife
to tell her what a great day
it was for the country.

I shove my taser down
the front of my jeans,
and my fingers dance
to send the Wife a message,
and I feel the slightest buzzing
in my crotch, like the Wife’s
getting me in the mood.


Gabriel Hart reads "Taserman":



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Bob confesses: "As soon as I read that one of the neo-Nazis who'd attacked the Capitol and the Constitution had tased his genitals and suffered a heart attack and death as a result, thereby doing us all a favor and taking himself out of the gene pool, I knew I had to write about that genius of Darwinian self-destruction."


ROBERT COOPERMAN's latest chapbook is All Our Fare-Thee-Wells (Finishing Line Press), his latest love letter to the Grateful Dead. Forthcoming from Kelsay Books is Reefer Madness, half about his misspent youth, half about the Colorado Girl Scouts' decision to okay selling cookies in front of pot shops.