© copyright Harry R. Wilkens 2008 All rights reserved; no part of this chapbook may be reproduced in any way without the written consent of the author Cover-design, editing and typesetting by Alan Corkish erbacce-press publications Liverpool UK 2008 ISBN: 978-1-906588-05-2 erbacce-press can be found via: http://www.erbacce-press.com

PISS TALKS by Harry R. Wilkens Fourth, increased edition of the chapbook: published by BUDGET PRESS in 2000, LUMMOX PRESS in 2001 and HARICOM (Korean/Engl.) in 2006.

This small collection of poems is the best work I have seen from Harry R. Wilkens. Read it on the subway or read it in the shit-house. Then pass it on to a soldier on guard duty or a young whore selling her body for food. They'll identify with it.

A.D. Winans


Fighting for peace is like fucking for chastity (Norman J. Olson, USA)

Two things to be afraid of: The order of the Unrighteous And the disorder of the Righteous (El-Mehdi Chaïbeddera, Algeria)

With medals it’s the same as with haemorrhoids: any asshole can get them (Marty Feldman, England)

Harry R. Wilkens was born in 1945 in the French/American garrison town of Kaiserslautern (in the former French Occupation Zone of Germany), nicknamed “K-Town” by the American GIs. He was always hanging around with American and especially French soldiers. While many of his schoolpals left for the USA, he remained in Europe, mostly in French-speaking countries. Wrote newspaper articles and poetry in German and French and published from 1977 to 1981 in Bavaria the anarchist quarterly Conflict. Background journalist in Athens from 1984 to 1987. Has been living since 1991 in Geneva and continues to write his poetry directly into his familiar “GI-English” for many zines all over the world and several chapbooks, like The Hit Man (also in Arabic), Terre Promise, Zombies (bilingual), Pig’s Hell, Un autre monde, Abyss (English/Greek) and the first three versions of Piss Talks (one of them in English/Korean). In 1997, along with others, he founded the Docker Movement for free, non-adademic poetry accessible to everybody and was the editor of the Dockernet newsletter.



Harry Wilkens has a poetic voice that I would die for. It is so straightforward, so right on, cutting to the heart of hypocrisy in every level of life--sexual, political, social, racial. He knows what a farce all wars are. He knows what price we pay for sex whether with a whore or with a lover. He sees through every sham and façade of our governments, our prideful crusades, and our pretentious personal lives. Not only does he lay the world on the line, his line, just as it is--nothing added, nothing subtracted, beauty and ugliness in equal parts--but he does so with enormous deadpan humor, a veritable literary Buster Keaton. Bukowski has passed him the baton of ashcan school, gutter-in-the-mouth poetry. Wilkens is the new laureate of irony, sarcasm, and pessimism so black it makes you believe in life again. These poems are as serious as they are funny. They are the precious visions of real life witnessed by someone who has sweated and suffered, lusted and exulted, and paid the heaviest price for his experience--he has felt it all, thought about it deeply, weighed it, and recorded it for us with a precision eye and voice. Only the greatest poets are able to make their life so real for us, so permanent on the page that their poems will speak of the time they live in as if it is happening right in front of us--even if we are thousands of miles and maybe even thousands of years away. People will always know of these travesties, these triumphs, these sad banalities, these perhaps useless but nonetheless beautiful human hopes that one man lived and lived through in the middle of Europe in the late twentieth century--because Harry Wilkens took the trouble to write them for us, and write them so well. He deserves thanks from all of us, and our closest attention to his words. Gerald Nicosia © 2008


War Brides

The whores of Skopje & Baghdad don’t mind if it’s a blue helmet or a green one. They just give a fuck about it.


I witnessed the retreat of the glorious US Army in my German native town, slipping like cockroaches through the hole in the backyard wall of an off-limits brothel before they could get caught.

Venereal Disease

I was very much disturbed by that US Army poster in my home town in the 50s showing a sweet young virgin, who made me dream, with written underneath something like: “You think she is CLEAN, but...” This was not even a German girl, or a Polish one, or another Displaced Person, and OUR whores were not THAT young. But anyway, she looked much too much AMERICAN to be real, at least 40 years ago.

The Day I Screwed Shirley Temple

The day I screwed Shirley Temple the stars of the spangled banner were sparkling like hell police dogs were barking soldiers were sodomizing each other waiting for better days when all those white, yellow, brown and black Shirley Temples badly in need of Freedom & Democracy would be available again.

Buy American !

French kiss in an American cheese is almost like French love


Gorgeous French & Russian & Oriental machine-gunned girls ready to kill not to fuck, unable to imagine getting laid by some good-looking Arab boy instead of their inbred skullcapped accomplices and other machine-gunned scum poured onto this blessed earth.

With Kohl in the Sauna

All that water dripping down his belly and off his prick into the gutter! What a waste, instead of filling it into small bottles and selling it against hard Euros to the unemployed for their miraculous cure of any illusion that things may go better.

First Dog

Nobody remembers his name - Blondi was Hitler’s, Buddy Clinton’s, Barney George W. Bush’s - but WHAT was the name of Germany’s First Dog in 2000? First Dogs may change, like first ladies do, but never would they tell the President’s sex-life, nor the First Lady’s. First Dog is the President’s best friend.

Genital Mutilation

You can see them, these weird white gentlemen & black ladies, rushing in their Porsches & Jaguars all over Europe, some of them heading overseas. They’ve got sharp knives eager to cut fresh pricks and cunts. They are the circumcisers & excisers, impatiently expected and abundantly paid and celebrated. With a lot of thrill & fun & extra tips. What’s a hangman compared to them, or even a bloody Army general?

Rogue Mates

From time to time I go to Rogue States to meet my Rogue Mates: Stephen, Goran and Marwan, on death row and in body bags, Gita, Senka and Biljana Fucking for peace in rape-camps.


Fishermen are fishing in the Caribbean for Cuban orphans and their surrogate mothers.


If Buddha would have had to earn his sweet life in the sweat of his brow, and if Jesus would have trembled in a roaring steel factory, and if the other guy (blessed be His name) would have been on the dole, then WE would be in Paradise.

Phoolan Devi

I am sick of all those fake elves and nymphs, goddesses, princesses and queens, who made my blood boil and shed my ink. However, this raped Goddess of Flowers and Bandit Queen, a lower caste girl with balls and bullets, and at the same time a nice piece of ass, beats them all and just entered my wet dreams.

My little gas-chamber

Oh dear sweet little Jesus, just give me a sweet little gas-chamber to put in it, just for fun, all those Swiss officials and other well-to-do people who handed weird people over to those who ran those real big gas-chambers

Getting along

Any concentration camp boss was just getting along and so were the guardians and the inmates. Everybody just wanted to get along. Even Hitler had to get along with his industrialists, with Stalin and with Eva Braun. These had to get along, too, sometimes to a bitter end, often they weren’t just dying in their bed. Now we are trying hard to get along, too.

The Pole

“Who gives you the right to make our life so miserable?” asked the Polish rail-layer, standing upright amongst the cowardly ducked inmates of this Eastern German camp in 1964. He was carried away in a bus nicknamed “Stuyvesant Express”. Now it’s my turn to stand upright and raise my voice, regardless of the consequences.

State Poet

How do they manage to become State Poet? Do they write politically correct stuff only? Good thoughts to be read publicly on the Fourth of July? Are they friends with the Governor, or help sustain him in his campaign? Or otherwise lick asses of Very Important People? Could a State Poet end up on death row?

Old Fahd

The King is in town again - Head-chopper, Head-chopper! With 300 courtesans - Ass-lickers, Ass-lickers! Eighty of age and harem flown-in - Braggart, Braggart! Fat boys and veiled girls - Cousin-fuckers, Cousin-fuckers! Rent-a-driver and rent-a-girl - Slave-holders, Slave-holders! Dog-shit in the princesses’ beds - Dirty sluts, Dirty sluts! Two million-a-day expenses - Bloodsuckers, Bloodsuckers!

The Beginning Of All Evil

The beginning of all evil is the lack of women in politics, whereas politicians have much too old wives and are envious of competitors with young bedmates. “Make love, not war” should be particularly valid for presidents of belligerent countries. Maybe they wouldn’t even be president, but just enjoy their life with a young sexy bitch.


The world doesn’t care to be improved, but some people do, the miserable ones. And what doesn’t kill them, makes them stronger, so that they keep on trying hard to improve the world.


The wood-strawberries picked in 1964 between the remaining railroad tracks from Weimar to Buchenwald tasted great, even without whipped cream.


Nobody is useless. Even an old grandma can still board a plane packed with a bomb.


Bones & skulls towered up to hell in white columns which form a maze swarming with people who walk unperturbed on their way to be piled up in a new column of stinking rotten flesh.


Peace process Peace talks Peacekeepers Peace on Earth - Piss on you !

Politically Incorrect

Joy overwhelmed us when that evening the newsboy passed by our table at the Geneva café shouting the headline: “Kennedy assassiné à Dallas!”. Three years later, freezing as a newsboy on Vienna’s Kennedy-Bridge, the remembrance of this joy helped me to keep warm.

Restore Hope

It is a man’s job to carry white rice bags for the hungry black man and delicious black girls for the horny white man dressed in a fashionable multi-pocket khaki suit driving an all-wheel car to golf greens and beaches or stiff white pricks into firm black asses before getting relaxed in luxury hotels where female staff provides the rest of the warrior.

The Land of Promise

Slim brown people, clinging to airplanes and ships like peanut butter on a sandwich or maggots on a corpse, bound for God’s own country, the homeland of Freedom & Democracy, melting-pot of the fat black & white junk-food eaters, drug-addicts and serial killers, with white teeth, healthy thoughts and good sex.

Jessica Lynch *)

After a whole-body-wash Of Jessica Lynch, and having scrutinized Her pussy & asshole, Iraqi doctors found no Trace of rape, Even if she had Phantasized about rape By moustached Arabs

*) War Heroine


A tin of dog-food would save a little negro’s life. But Westerners prefer keeping it themselves and rather would send dog-shit to Africa, as they badly need it for their own old folks. 36 Warriors They were fighting body to body (and what bodies!) on the beach of Budva in Montenegro. No casualties insofar, only some broken hearts of sun-bathing girls unnoticed by their heroes.

Fata Morgana

Ali and I were on night shift in the desert tent watching that porno video on our Panasonic portable. When that gorgeous French girl shoved her buttocks nearly out of frame I couldn’t restrain myself: I slowly shoved my little finger into her pink pussy. It worked and was wet and tasted like any honeypot. Then I probed the tiny bunghole with my other little finger. It was tight, but worked. Until Ali told me to get off the screen.


Spread the fun in the Balkans with Skippy Super Chunk Peanut Butter, donated by the People of the United States of America. With a coupon for a free toy redeemable at your next store.


Humanity pure, no sentimental humanitarianism: stray kids & dogs, hungry despite the enormous waste of money & food. Beggars dreaming of pulling a rickshaw, rickshaw-pullers dreaming of a rebirth as a rickshaw-biker, until in another life their karma will finally make them the driver of a taxi powered by pig-shit, their own excrements being recycled into food for a shit-powered humanity. Amidst this chaos of desperate survivors, minds get as black as the hole in which this futuristic vision will once collapse.

Real World

Looking down from the 4th floor restaurant into the street, in the bustling lunch-time crowd two men are leisurely walking their tiny sexy DOGS. I wonder if this happens too in Cairo or in Calcutta. Amongst diplomats perhaps, but they’d rather leave this job to their wives and prefer jogging. Maybe in Cairo or Calcutta men are walking their KIDS, or just all their WORRIES.


#War #Peace # #Balkans #Skopje #Montenegro #Baghdad

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