John Saade Poppajorge

John Saade Poppajorge – American criminal poet, 1896-1920

Hailing from the black-hills of South Dakota, John Saade Poppajorge was the only child of a lucky frontier couple who had cashed in during the gold rush. At twelve years old, after recovering form a gunshot wound that would leave him blind in one eye and wearing a small, black eye patch for the rest of his short life, he abandoned his home, riding the rails all the way to New York City, where he found work taking inventory on cargo ships in Brooklyn boat yards. At 17, he was arrested for illegally dealing arms that he had been stealing from the ships. He was sent to prison for 2 years and a couple of months, where he discovered Shakespeare and Cervantes (amongst other notable literary big-wigs) in the shabby penitentiary library. After being released on his twentieth birthday, he joined the navy but only for the free ride to Paris, where he went AWOL and began writing poetry under various pseudonyms. His inaugural book, Foot-Shark, was published by a small Parisian press that specialized in pornographic novellas, such as Ma Vie Dans la Mer de Rose and Les Onze Mille Roses Fou. Foot-Shark was met with mixed reviews, some calling it,  “An astonishing debut from Americas most promising poet..” and others putting it down as “a collection of loose, American trash.” It is said that Picasso once drew a picture of  John Saade Poppajorge at a dinner party thrown by Gertrude Stein. He was described by the Spanish painter as “a quite loathsome individual who kept drunkenly hitting on my wife and pawing at her feet. He’s no writer, just an animal.”  It is known that he often lunched with Gertrude Stein and is said that he was accompanied by a new, stunning, woman each and every time. In 1920, at the age of 24, following a tumultuous nervous breakdown, he walked into a brothel and stabbed himself repeatedly through the heart. He had no funeral and was buried in an unmarked grave, just as he had wished. The following is a poem from his posthumous collection, The Impecunious Nymphomaniac.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

In a bloom
I appear to be
Quite new
And rather fragrant

In a flight
You bare every flaccid appendage and
Execrate your underwear and also:
a)  a tailbone
b)  a jaundiced baby with a cobras lucky fang
c)  a marble index
d)  the effigy of an old flame carved into a bar of soap
e)  opulent pollen sweeping through through a nasal cavity; yours!
f)   all of the above and a mordant wardrobe as yr cannon

In a mou
He is primarily
a liar or a walking
Woodstalk or a jem a jewel or else a jew-rat
because that is a thing
a thing is something my mother would say
My mother is a particular color of woman
A woman is a woman is a dog
Therefore this particular color
must be cactus green-
Rosey bitch

In a scratch
She is from another street
Nothing new here but
A vixen that would suck on yr
Heartbeat as if it were a firecracker. It’s true too!!
She fucked with death and almost died from mutation.
Somewhere in that corsage is a loveliness a
very spankable girl writing
A very melic poem while asking to be
Smacked harder
Because to smack harder and then harder
Takes some ardor
and the spankable girl indeed loves
a driven young man, a professional; his profession,
A wolf-hound specializing in sexual perversion

We were starved bats in flame
laying siege on opal-traced night times
Foaming from gullets and happy too
but now we are still happy
like a loon or a bowl of cherries and
Sometimes it’s even sorta-kinda
like sex
with an




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